


Old Dreams

by JezebelGoldstone



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Descriptions of Injury, Developing Relationship, Drama, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, Romance, Sexual Content, True Love, relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JezebelGoldstone/pseuds/JezebelGoldstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John is injured, his life takes a sudden turn to the left. All he wants is normalcy--- well, either that, or finally getting together with Sherlock. But Sherlock carries on as though nothing's changed, and John wonders if it ever will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to A C Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, Martin Freeman, Benedict Cumberbatch, and the rest of their respective actors. Story is my own.
> 
> This story was originally written for marsdaydreams, on tumblr, for the Johnlock Gift Exchange (also on tumblr.) As the prompt itself does not appear until Chapter Two, I will post the prompt then.

* * *

 

 

 

**Helpless, now, I stand with him**

**Watching older dreams grow dim**

_-Far From the Home I Love, Fiddler on the Roof_

  

 

* * *

 

What got to John later, what really _killed_ him about the whole thing--- killed him mentally, that is, since it was the car that almost killed him physically--- what really got to him was the fact that it was the definition of an accident. It wasn’t some criminal, it wasn’t because of a case. Hell, it wasn’t even _during_ a case. He was just walking.

Walking down Baker Street with Sherlock. He’d finally convinced the lazy git to come to Tesco with him, so that maybe once in a blue moon when John was unquestionably unable to go himself, Sherlock could do the grocery shopping. They hadn’t made it halfway down Baker Street when there was a screeching of tyres behind them.

John had a soldier’s and a doctor’s instincts; probably someone else wouldn’t even have had time to turn before it hit. John, however, could move like lightening when he wanted to, and at the screech of tyres behind them he immediately whirled, his thoughts jumbled images of villains and assassins and the words ‘protect Sherlock.’ But even with lightning reflexes, there was nothing he could do.

Tyres screamed against the pavement.

John whirled.

He had just enough time to catch a blinding flash of green before the car slammed into him.

 

* * *

 

John floated. Everything was calm, and quiet, and a dark, murky grey. He spun lazily, dizzily, through the haze. There were no shapes. There was no up, no down, no left or right or past or future. There was no time. There was just. . . nothing.

The grey pressed closer, and John began worrying. Where was he? What was going on?

There was no time, so there was no telling how long it took, but eventually he was scared. He was _terrified_. What was going on? Was he dead? Why couldn’t he stop floating?

It felt like falling, only worse. Falling, blindfolded, cocooned in something close and familiar-smelling, something that felt safe but really wasn’t. Falling and he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t save himself, falling and he was going to be sick and then he was going to hit the ground and die and. . . and. . .

His hand stopped falling. He’d forgotten that he had a body, but once his hand was anchored and stopped spinning he remembered.

The rest of him was still spinning and floaty and nauseous, so he focused on his hand. His right hand. It was warm, and something was moving, and--- oh. Sherlock was holding his hand.

That realization brought him a giant step towards reality. He began feeling out the rest of his body, and once he put his mind to it and started trying to find it, his body settled around him heavily. Before he was floating, but now he was crushed, smothered under the weight of bone and muscle and sinew, and he found he couldn’t move. He wanted to open his eyes, move his legs, do something, anything, to prove he could and to run away from the grey haze that still surrounded him.

Sherlock’s hand tightened on his. John calmed. It would be okay.

Sherlock’s hand? _Sherlock’s_? What was Sherlock doing here? Why on earth was he holding John’s hand? He was certainly more tactile with John than he was with anyone else, and if John was being honest with himself then he’d admit that he was more tactile with Sherlock, too, but they had only held hands once. And that had been. . .

“Full circle, John,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled.

Sherlock was right. That had been right before Sherlock. . . left. There was no need to remember that time, or what came immediately after, or what came in the months after that. No need to remember that at all. Because Sherlock was holding his hand again, the same hand, only now there were no handcuffs. Now he didn’t have to hold John’s hand, but he was, and he wasn’t pulling away.

Slowly John was coming back to himself, and he knew that if he started thinking of running down damp alleys, handcuffed to the man he was about to loose and grasping his hand like somehow they both already knew what was coming, he would have a panic attack in a hospital bed. While theoretically a hospital was the best place to have a breakdown, it was also the last place John wanted that to happen. So he held Sherlock’s hand tight, tight, and tried to relax as whatever drugs had been keeping him knocked out slowly wore off.

Apparently he wasn’t quite as with it as he had thought, because after a moment he heard voices. Thought they had been going on for a while. It was hard, for a little while, to make out the words, but eventually he managed.

“---and sod off. We don’t need you.” That was Sherlock.

“You may not, but that is beside the point at the moment, Sherlock.” Ah. John knew that voice. That’d be Mycroft.

“He’s asleep, now,” said Sherlock. John could almost _hear_ the glare. “I don’t---”

“He’s not asleep, Sherlock, he’s in a drug-induced coma. _Legal_ drugs, I might add.”

“He was, but he woke up for a moment. Now he’s asleep, and I don’t want him having a heart-attack on top of everything else when he sees you. Leave before he comes to, Mycroft, or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“You rarely are,” said Mycroft, but John could hear him sigh, and then a rustle of fabric.

There was a pause. John held his breath.

“Sherlock, I---”

“ _Don’t_.” Sherlock hissed the word with such vehemence John reflexively tightened his grip.

Mycroft sighed again. “I realize this is something you and I differ on, brother, no matter how much we may profess to agree. But you should kn---”

“Mycroft,” said Sherlock. Firmly, this time. “Don’t. Get out.”

John held his breath again. After a moment, he could hear Mycroft leave.

Sherlock’s head thumped on the bed next to him. John smiled. “How,” he croaked, but his voice gave out before he could finish.

“John? John?” Sherlock’s voice was close, and John did his best to prise his eyes open.

They felt like they were full of grit, and glued shut, and then it felt like they were being stabbed. He winced and closed them again.

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock said quietly. John tried opening his eyes again, and it still hurt. “Take your time.”

It took a few tries, but eventually John managed to open his eyes and keep them open. They adjusted to the light. He blinked until he could focus, and then looked at Sherlock.

The younger man was sitting next to his bed, holding his hand in a death-grip. Only Sherlock, thought John sourly, would be able to sit by a friend in hospital for god only knows how long and _still_ look posh and put together.

Not that he could completely fool John, of course. The hair was touseled, but less artfully than normal. The younger man was smiling, hugely, but there was an edge to the grin and a weariness about the eyes. John squeezed his hand.

“How much---”

“Wait,” Sherlock ordered. John snapped his mouth shut, and Sherlock reached over to a bedside table John hadn’t noticed before. He managed to pour a glass of water one-handed, then held it out to John.

John tried reaching for it, but his left hand was trembling. He grit his teeth and reached anyway, but Sherlock snapped, “Don’t be ridiculous,” so he gave up.

After a moment fiddling with controls, Sherlock found the one that raised the upper half of the bed. When John was almost sitting, Sherlock held the cup to his lips, guided by John’s still-shaking left hand.

Somehow he managed to down the whole glass without spilling anything. Sherlock put the cup back on the table as John’s head fell back, annoyed that such a little thing had exhausted him so badly.

“So,” John said. “How much weight has Mycroft put on?”

Sherlock smiled and laughed, but his eyes slid closed, then his head bowed forward to rest on the covers next to John’s thigh. John felt his throat close and his chest tighten. He held Sherlock’s hand tighter.

“Only two pounds,” Sherlock said. “He’s getting better at it.”

John tried to laugh in response, but it sounded forced even to himself. They stayed like that for a little while, neither of them moving, John with his head tipped back to look at the ceiling, Sherlock with his eyes pressed to the bed. John wouldn’t have been able to relinquish Sherlock’s hand if his life depended on it.

“It’s just the drugs,” said Sherlock.

John blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“Your hand,” Sherlock continued. “It’s only shaking because of the drugs. Your whole body is shaking. Or would be, if it weren’t so tired and still half-drugged. The shaking in your hand will stop in less than half an hour.”

John sighed and closed his eyes. Neither of them moved or spoke again until they heard the door open. John opened his eyes, and Sherlock sat up.

The curtains surrounding the bed were pulled back, and a young woman with a clipboard stood staring at them. After a moment, to John’s annoyance if not surprise, she glared at Sherlock.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said. “I had thought we made it perfectly clear you were to call the nurses’ station _as soon_ as Doctor Watson woke.”

Before Sherlock could answer John cut in, “My fault. I told him not to.” As an afterthought he added, “I am a doctor, you know.”

The nurse smiled at him. It was a very cheerful, sunny smile. So she was a pleasant person; she was only glaring at Sherlock because he was. . . well, Sherlock.

“I know, Doctor,” she said, kind but firm. “Which means that you must understand that at the moment, your care is best left in the hands of someone else.”

John chuckled. “Know I’ve said _those_ words myself before. I’ll try to be good from now on.”

She smiled again, and took his vitals, and Sherlock didn’t speak. John was grateful. When the nurse went to check his pulse and saw how his and Sherlock’s hands were still desperately clasped, without a word she moved to the other side of the bed and used his left wrist instead. John was more grateful.

“There,” she said, glancing up from her clipboard, “that wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” But she wasn’t looking at John, she was looking at Sherlock. That didn’t make sense.

Before John could ask, though, she turned to him and said, “Everything looks very well, Doctor Watson. We’re going to have to check your dressings in about an hour. I can send your doctor in now, or you can wait until then.”

“Send him in now, please,” said John immediately.

She nodded an made a note, then told him to call the nurses’ station if he needed anything at all. With a smile to John and an unreadable look to Sherlock, she left, closing the door loudly behind her.

There was silence for a moment before John said, “What dressings?”

Sherlock jumped violently.

“Sherlock,” said John, “what dressings? What’s she talking about?”

“John,” said Sherlock slowly, turning to face him. At the last moment he seemed unable to meet John’s eye, and his gaze fell instead to their clasped hands. “How much do you remember?”

John shuddered. “Enough.”

“Details, John.”

“Fine,” John said, huffing out an exasperated breath. “I remember. . . Let’s see. We were walking to Tesco. We were still on Baker Street. You were, what, perhaps two paces behind me? I heard tyres on the street, and I turned, and there was something green, and then . . .” John shuddered again. “That’s it.”

“It was a car,” said Sherlock bluntly. “It hit you in the midsection. I called an ambulance. You were rushed to hospital. They said there was internal bleeding and took you immediately into surgery. That was yesterday. You spent the rest of the day, last night, and part of this morning unconscious.”

John nodded, processing, trying to glean as much information as he could from what Sherlock had told him. “How long was I in surgery?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Two hours.”

“Ah. Probably not too serious, then. At least,” he added, “not as serious as it could have been.”

“Probably,” Sherlock said.

John waited, but no more was forthcoming. “Well?” he asked, nudging his hand in Sherlock’s. The younger man looked up at him questioningly. “What are my injuries?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Oh, come on, Sherlock. I’m not made of glass. I may be a bit cut up at the moment, but you _know_ I can handle knowing.”

Sherlock shook his head again, eyes sliding away from John’s.

“Sherlock,” said John, “I’m going to worry until I find out. If the doctor takes more than about five minutes to get here, I’m going to peel off the damn bandages and just look for myself.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock spat. “All you would do is hurt yourself, open yourself unnecessarily to the possibility of infection, and undoubtedly increase your recovery time. Pointless.”

“Dull,” John agreed. He was gratified by seeing the corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitch.

“I’d rather hear it from you,” said John quietly.

Sherlock looked at him again, gaze openly curious. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m going to find out that something bad and painful happened to me,” said John. “I can hear it from a doctor I’ve never met or from my best mate. I’d rather hear the worst of it from you.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Sherlock---” John began.

“I don’t know!” He bowed his head, but didn’t rest it on the bed again. His hand tightened convulsively around John’s, and the older man wondered if he even realized he was doing it. “I don’t know,” Sherlock said again. “They won’t tell me. I’ve been trying to read your reports, but Mycroft is all over this place. I haven’t been able to find out anything.”

“Ah,” said John. “I _knew_ I wasn’t important enough to warrant a visit from the entire British government all on my own.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched again, but the strangled noise he made in his throat didn’t sound at all like a laugh.

John slid closer to Sherlock, close enough to stretch his still damn shaking left hand to lightly tap Sherlock’s nose. “None of that,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s okay.”

Sherlock froze as John’s hand fell to the bed, and there was no telling what would have happened if the door hadn’t slammed open at that moment.

“Doctor Watson!” exclaimed the man who strode into the room. “I’m Doctor Niven. Pleased to see you awake. Chelsea says your vitals look marvelous. Ah, you must be Mr. Holmes. I’m afraid I have to tell you, Mr. Holmes, that I won’t be able to go over Doctor Watson’s prognosis---”

“I’m well aware of the situation,” said Sherlock. John could almost feel the coldness radiating off him suddenly, felt the ice in the words. Sherlock stood. “I’ll return in an hour.”

“No,” John said, holding Sherlock’s hand even more tightly when the younger man loosened his grip. “Stay here.”

“John,” said Sherlock, looking down at him. “They won’t tell you what’s wrong if I’m here.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said John. “No patient is ever forced to be alone to hear their prognosis if they don’t want to be. And I’m the patient here, as I’ve been reminded often enough, and _I want you here with me_.”

“John,” Sherlock began again. His face was softening. John suddenly felt, stupidly, like he was going to cry.

“I’m afraid he’s right,” said Dr. Niven. “I won’t make him leave if you desire his presence, but I’m afraid there’s no way I can go over any of this with you while he’s here.”

“That’s _outrageous---_ ” John began.

“Yes,” Sherlock cut him off. “It’s outrageous and it’s _Mycroft_ , John.”

All at once, John deflated. “Ah,” he said. “No way around that one, then.”

“’Fraid not.”

John sighed and closed his eyes. Sherlock didn’t move.

Resigned, John opened his eyes to look at Sherlock. “One hour,” he said. “I don’t care if we’re not done by then. One hour.”

He squeezed Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock squeezed back, briefly, and then he was striding dramatically away.

“I don’t know how he does that,” said John to Dr. Niven as the door closed. “People shouldn’t be able to sweep out of a room like that unless they’re wearing a cape.”

Dr. Niven laughed, but John knew the sound of it. He laughed like that himself, when he was trying to lighten the mood before he had to start telling someone what was wrong with them.

“Doctor Watson,” began Dr. Niven, pulling up a chair to sit on John’s left. John was absurdly happy that he hadn’t sat in the chair that Sherlock had been occupying.

“John, please.”

“Very well. Now, John, about the accident. . .”

 

* * *

 

One hour later John heard the door open. Without opening his eyes he reached out his hand, his left hand, his damnable left hand that was still bloody shaking, and a moment later Sherlock’s long fingers curled around his own.

Human touch was the last thing John wanted right then. The feel of skin against skin was disusting, revolting, sent an ache of yearning through him so strong he nearly screamed.

He couldn’t let go. Not for anything.

“John?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said John.

“Then don’t.”

“I won’t.”

Silence.

John gasped and snapped his eyes open as a thought struck him. “Sherlock,” he said urgently. Sherlock leaned forward from his perch on the chair next to the bed, and held his hand more tightly. It felt awful. “Sherlock,” John said, “promise me you’ll leave it alone.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Leave what alone?”

“I mean,” John said, struggling to sit up.

“Don’t,” said Sherlock sharply.

“Listen to me, Sherlock,” John fell back against the pillows but clutched Sherlock’s hand desperately. “Don’t try to find out what happened. Don’t eavesdrop on the nurses, don’t steal my report, don’t deduce it if you can help it.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. John watched his face anxiously. Whatever Sherlock was trying to say, it seemed to take him a few tries to assemble the words. That really worried John. He’d _never_ known Sherlock to think before he said something. It was disconcerting.

“John,” said Sherlock, “I have to know.”

“No,” John shook his head. “Sherlock, I don’t _want_ you to know.”

“Then tell me.”

John closed his eyes. “I can’t.”

They sat in silence again for a few minutes. Sherlock’s grip on his hand grew steadily tighter.

John was surprised by how quiet, how _small_ Sherlock’s voice sounded when he finally spoke. “Are you going to be okay, John?”

“What? I--- oh,” John opened his eyes. Sherlock’s head was bowed, but even the dark curls couldn’t entirely hide his expression. “Oh, no, no, Sherlock,” said John. He let go of Sherlock’s hand and the younger man let him. John raised his hand to cup Sherlock’s jaw, to tilt his head up to meet John’s eye. John’s other hand reached to stroke through Sherlock’s curls. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m going to be fine. Nothing life-threatening, nothing at all.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. John couldn’t believe that he, one Doctor John Hamish Watson, plain and ordinary in every way, had caused such a look to appear on the face of Sherlock Holmes.

He was only proud for a moment. After that he just felt guilty.

“I see,” said Sherlock. It was the closest thing to a declaration of undying friendship John had ever heard. He smiled.

“Nothing to worry about. I’ve got to stay one more night, for observation, and then you can take me home tomorrow.”

Sherlock nodded, face carefully business-like and free of emotion again. John smiled at him anyway. “Recovery time?”

John shrugged. “Hard to say. Probably a week to ten days before I’m free of constant discomfort. Six to eight weeks before I’m fully recovered.”

“Unacceptable,” Sherlock muttered.

John smiled again, falling back against the pillows, suddenly unreasonably weary. “I know. They said I could get better right now if I wanted to, but I picked the long way. Just to annoy you.”

Sherlock chuckled. John started drifting, and when he felt a long, cool hand against his forehead he thought he imagined it. He almost opened his eyes to check, but he definitely didn’t imagine it when Sherlock ordered, “Sleep, John.”

He did.

 

* * *

 

The next day John sat on the edge of his bed, watching Sherlock move around the room, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. John had wanted to pack, had insisted on doing it himself when two of the nurses tried to help, but after they’d gone Sherlock had taken his overnight bag and John hadn’t protested. He could do it himself or let Sherlock do it. There was really no difference there. Besides, the one time Sherlock decided to be helpful without prodding was _not_ going to be the one time John turned him down.

The thought of 221B, of Mrs. Hudson, of the flat, of _home_ was so wonderful John had to close his eyes for a moment against the surge of longing. He thought about finally being away from this damnable hospital, finally sitting in his own chair again, drinking his tea, reading his paper and listening to Sherlock ‘play’ his violin. God, how he hated this hospital room.

John opened his eyes. He would have to tell Sherlock eventually, he knew. Once they got back to the flat John wanted to simply forget it, forget it all, pretend like it never happened. He wouldn’t be able to do that if Sherlock didn’t know; if John constantly had the worry of telling him hanging over his head. Best say the words aloud now and leave them in this hospital room, rather than dragging them home to Baker Street.

John took a deep breath and said, “I can’t have children.”

Sherlock stopped moving, then straightened. His back was to John.

“Not ever,” John continued. “The car, it--- it hit below my midsection. Hit something else that was rather important,” forced himself to laugh, “and now I’m afraid it’s rather. . . dysfunctional.”

What he didn’t say was that it was also partially missing. The damage had been too great;  flesh crushed, viens ruptured, blood spewing beneath the skin, nerves screaming, and there had been no choice but to amputate more than half of his penis. John had never felt inadequate before, knew that average size was perfectly acceptable, but it turned out that when ‘average sized’ was cut in half what was left was very small indeed.

Even that might not have been _so_ bad, he thought to himself for what must have been the thousandth time. Even that he could live with. It was just one more physical deformity to add to the list. Surely if he found a woman who loved him enough to marry him, surely she’d love him enough to not mind too badly that he would probably never be able to bring her to orgasm with his cock. Surely someone could love him that much.

But that wasn’t all. Oh, no, John’s life was never that easy. He couldn’t just get shot in the shoulder; he had to also get a psychosomatic limp and a cane. He couldn’t just loose half his manhood; he had to shoot blanks, now, too.

It was complicated, the inner workings of the human reproductive system, but John understood. He knew what it meant that scar tissue would be blocking most of the tubing, understood that it had been difficult enough to keep his urinary tract fully open. He knew that many men who suffered from erectile dysfunction disorder would also empty their sperm into their bladders, rather than out through the tip of their cocks, when they orgasmed. He had, however, never imagined that someday it would be medically impossible for he himself to do anything else.

Sherlock’s head turned, though he didn’t look at him. “John,” he began.

“No,” John shook his head. “No, it’s okay. Please don’t, Sherlock. I just . . . I just want to go home.”

Sherlock was still for a moment more, and then he resumed checking the room. By the time he turned back to John his face was carefully blank, and John had gotten himself back under control. They didn’t speak again.

When they finally made it back to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson was waiting anxiously. She cried and tried to hug John without actually touching him and said she’d been so worried, _so worried_ , did John have any idea how badly he’d scared the two of them? John shook his head and tried to smile and felt a swell of relief when he realized that Sherlock had lied to her, had told her that John’s injury was to his stomach. The three of them made their way up to 221B, where John was forced into an armchair while Mrs. Hudson made him lunch and fluttered over him. It was comforting, John realized, much as he would have liked to be annoyed.

No sooner had he thought it than he saw Sherlock disappear around the corner. Even over Mrs. Hudson’s chatter and the whistle of the kettle John could hear the snick of Sherlock’s door and the click of the lock.

Sherlock didn’t emerge for the rest of the day. John went to bed without seeing him again, realizing that other than one word he hadn’t heard Sherlock speak since he’d told him.

Good, thought John. Maybe he hadn’t heard. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he didn’t understand. Maybe John could pretend Sherlock didn’t know, could pretend that he himself didn’t know, could pretend it wasn’t true. Maybe everything would be okay.

Maybe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: This and all subsequent chapters beta'ed by the most wonderful beta ever to stalk the web: the beautiful Miyako Toudaiji. Were it not for her encouragement, support, and insight, the rest of this story wouldn't be much good (if it existed at all). All remaining mistakes are entirely my own.

* * *

 

Waiting to heal was interminable. Not waiting to _recover_ , because there was no recovery, not from this. All he could do was heal, was wait for the skin to grow back, the rawness and bleeding and swelling to finally scar and heal over. Thankfully most of the injured, crushed flesh had been removed, and it was only the very tip of what was left, where the amputation had taken place, that was still injured. The bandages were tricky, and the catheter he had to use was torturous, but there was no other way. John grit his teeth and soldiered on.

At first he soldiered on alone, and that was fine with him. After coming back from the hospital he didn’t see Sherlock for three days. Whether the lanky genius was hiding in his room, or even in the flat at all, John didn’t know. All he knew was that, while he was adjusting to his new reality, he didn’t have to put up with Sherlock.

His new reality consisted mainly of this: his sex life was essentially over. While he was still medically capable of erection and orgasm, he knew there was precious little chance anyone would want him now. Even wanking was probably going to be difficult, to be honest. He was well aware he had a history of psychosomatic problems, and over the first few days when he was still raw to the touch he tried to resign himself to the fact that on top of everything else he was so upset he’d probably given himself erectile dysfunction, too.

And children. He’d never be a father. John was in his mid-forties and not even dating anyone seriously; he had known for years, maybe even decades, that his chances of being a father were slim to none. But before that knowledge had always come from the fact that in order to have children he’d need to involve a woman, and his lack of successful relationships made that unlikely. Now he had to deal with the fact that it was, medically speaking, just barely this side of impossible.

Yep. Sex life over.

And what did that say about dating? Frankly, his romantic life was essentially over, as well. Not that sex was the most important part of a relationship--- John would be the first to insist that any relationship based solely on sex not only wouldn’t last but was also pointless--- but he would also be the first to insist that sex was _important_. With sex being so undoubtedly difficult for him in the future, as well as his sudden inability to father children, he saw even less of a point in dating now than he had before.

It had always been a long shot, anyway. First med school, then the army, then Sherlock--- his chances of tricking any woman into marrying him had never been great. Not that he’d ever been able to find a woman he’d be willing to go through all that effort for, anyway. There had been Mary, who he’d dated on and off a few times after Sherlock returned, and John knew that if ever he were to marry anyone, it would be her. He just couldn’t bring himself to care.

For two days he could hardly walk. It may have technically been a small wound, but it was in a very sensitive area, and any sort of movement that pulled the skin of his groin even a little sent jolts of agony through him. After that it got a little better, and by the time he saw Sherlock again, on the fourth day, he was able to hobble around without too much trouble.

“John!” Sherlock cried, bursting into the flat like a whirlwind. “Come here.”

Thankful of any sort of distraction, John gingerly raised himself from his armchair and made his way to the kitchen, where Sherlock was busily moving experiments to the counters.

He shrugged out of his coat and scarf as John made his way past him, to see two manilla folders in the centre of the table. He opened them, and at first could hardly make sense of the glossy swirl of black and red that greeted him on the first page.

“Look at these,” Sherlock said. Then, peering over John’s shoulder, “No, no, that’s the second one. Start from the beginning.”

He snatched the folder out of John’s hands and shoved the other one at him.

“Crime scene photos?” John said after a minute.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do I really have to answer?”

John grinned at him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed being around Sherlock, how much he’d missed simply talking, until he was in a room with the man.

“What am I looking for?”

“Just tell me what you see. Independent, unbiased observations first, John.”

John snagged a chair with his foot and pulled it over, then set to work. He looked through the pictures meticulously, reconstructing everything as best he could without actually seeing the scene.

He wasn’t sure how long it was before he raised his eyes to Sherlock, a question dying on his lips. Sherlock was sitting on the other side of the table, his profile to John. His hands were pressed together, fingers against his lips, face smooth. John had to watch carefully just to see him breathe.

To stop himself staring, to break the spell, John spoke. “Sherlock, how did they die?”

Suddenly animated, Sherlock twisted in his chair. John could tell he was trying very hard to suppress a gleeful grin. He spread his hands. “I’ve not the faintest.”

John couldn’t help but grin back.

They spent the night pouring over the case files. There were dozens of photos, and full autopsy reports, and detailed descriptions of the bodies and the scenes, and yet even with all that information neither Sherlock nor John could adequately explain all the facts. They were in the middle of a heated argument over whether or not it would have been possible to contaminate one of the women’s lipstick with a toxin deadly enough to kill her and be colourless and odourless enough for her to still wear it when John jumped out of his chair to reinforce his point.

It was a mistake. He had been sitting on the hard chair for hours, and even before the accident the sudden movement would have made him wince. Now, however, he squeezed his eyes shut and grasped the edge of the table, trying not to put any weight on his groin as he leaned forward.

When he opened his eyes Sherlock was still on the other side of the table, leaning forward and looking intently at one of the pictures. First John was pissed--- he could go through all that right here and Sherlock didn’t even notice?--- before he realized that in fact he was grateful. Sherlock was unquestionably his best mate, but that didn’t mean that John enjoyed showing Sherlock his weakness and pain.

He glanced away and saw a glass of water and his prescription bottle near his hand. They had definitely _not_ been there before.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” said John. Sherlock grunted. John smiled and drank half the water in one long gulp, then said, “You’re right about anthrax, but I still think---”

“Pills, too, John,” Sherlock said, sounding mildly exasperated. He still hadn’t looked up.

John waved a hand. “I’m fine. If we could return to the point, please? Anthrax---”

“Pills, John,” Sherlock insisted.

John glared. “I’m not a child. I’m perfectly capable of figuring out when I need my medication, thank you. I am a---”

“Doctor, after all. I know.” Sherlock glanced up, a mischievous little smile on the corners of his mouth. John felt most of his anger fade away like a puff of mist. “I’ve heard doctors make the worst patients.”

“I’m above such things,” John scoffed, waving an imperious hand.

“Clearly you are not,” Sherlock laughed, and John couldn’t help but join in. “Come on, John,” said Sherlock, quickly standing and moving to John’s side, reaching for the bottle. “How can you concentra--- John, how many pills are left?” his brow suddenly wrinkled as he lifted the bottle and shook it.

“More than enough,” John said, making a grab for the bottle. Sherlock twisted away from him, which was depressingly easy, considering John was still trying not to move too fast.

Sherlock opened the bottle and shook the contents into his palm. He held still for a moment, apparently counting, before carefully replacing all of them. Then he screwed on the lid and set the bottle down on the table. It wasn’t until he raised his face to lock eyes with John that John realized Sherlock was glaring murderously.

“You haven’t been taking your medication,” Sherlock said. His voice was far too low.

“I have been taking it,” John said, raising an eyebrow. John Watson, intimidated by a Holmes? Please.

“Not enough.”

“Exactly the right amount,” John corrected, still calm. “I am a doctor, and it’s my body. I know how much I can take. I don’t want to get addicted to the pills.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Spare me,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re not going to get addicted to them and you know it. You just want to have some sort of control over something, want to prove that you can still take it, even if there’s nothing to prove---”

“How _dare_ you!” John cried. “It has _nothing_ to do with that! Medication is always unhealthy and it’s best to take as little as possible. Prescription dosages are guesses at best and---”

“ _You are in pain!_ ” Sherlock roared.

“Shut up, you idiot! Mrs. Hudson’s asleep!”

Sherlock slammed his fists down on the table, leaning forward to glare at John. John continued staring back, unimpressed. It was clear Sherlock wanted to keep shouting, but for Mrs. Hudson if no one else he would keep his voice down. “You had surgery _seven days ago_ , John. You need pain medication.”

“I’ve been taking pain medication,” said John.

“Not enough.”

“Exactly enough.”

“Why do you make me eat when I'm on a case?” Sherlock demanded.

John paused, thrown by the sudden shift. Sherlock’s demeanour hadn’t changed, he was still leaning forward and glaring thunderously, and clearly wanted an answer.

“Because you _need_ to eat, you idiot. I know you think the body is just transport, but it does have needs and if you don’t meet them adequately it’ll stop transporting you very well. We’ve been over this.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock nodded. His glare deepened. “Your body is in pain, John, and wounded, and you need to take care of it.”

“You do realize that the pills are only for the pain, right? They won’t actually help me recover any better. That’s what the antibiotics and all are for, and I’ve been taking _those_.”

“I fail to see how being in constant agony is going to speed the healing process.”

“It won’t matter either way, Sherlock---“

“So take the pills.”

“Why the _hell_ do you care if I take the pills or not?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. After a moment he said, “The Work, obviously. You can’t concentrate as well if you’re uncomfortable. And the Work needs you.”

That was as close as the detective would ever get to admitting he needed John, and John knew it. He softened instantly, but still wasn’t ready to give up.

“I’ll be fine,” said John. “I _am_ fine.”

“That’s great. Take the pills.”

“Sherlock---“

“Start taking the pills again, at the correct times and recommended dosages.”

“Or what?” John asked, smiling wearily.

Sherlock tilted his head, glaring and grinning at the same time. It was a good look for him. “Or I will keep the pills and dose you myself when and how I see fit.”

John glared. “You wouldn’t.”

“I’ve drugged your tea before.”

“That was an experiment for a case.”

“And this is even more important.”

They held their glares for one moment longer before John finally snapped. His groin really did hurt quite badly, now he thought about it. “Fine, fine,” he grumbled, holding out his hand.

Sherlock snapped open the bottle and shook two pills into his hand, then dropped them into John’s palm.

“The bottle, Sherlock.”

“Take these first.”

John grumbled and complied.

Sherlock smiled and handed the bottle back to him. John glared, then sank back into his chair, wincing.

It was nearly seven in the morning before they finally solved it. This was definitely one of the most strange cases John had ever heard of; definitely the strangest he had ever worked on personally. They had migrated to the living room at around midnight, and were sitting across from each other in their armchairs, each of them surrounded by photos and medical journals and a few of John’s medical textbooks that he’d sent Sherlock up into the attic to retrieve. Grey sunlight was just beginning to filter in through the windows when their eyes caught across the chaos as they smiled.

“That’s that, then,” said John.

“Indeed. I’ll go text them right away.” Sherlock sprang up, flying towards his coat.

John yawned and stretched, his back aching almost more than his front.

Sherlock was walking towards his room, eyes on his phone and thumbs moving furiously, when he said, “Bed, John. Sleep.”

John nodded, climbed the stairs, and decided to do just that.

 

* * *

 

Falling asleep proved easier said than done, though, John discovered when he was still awake two hours later. He’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours, not including the nap he’d had yesterday before Sherlock got home. Why couldn’t he sleep?

He tried to let his mind drift, thinking back over the case they’d spent the night working on. It had been exhilarating, even if they never left the flat. That it was a case that required more medical knowledge than deductive reasoning was unusual, but not unpleasant. Sherlock had looked positively _impressed_ a few times, when John had explained something to him. The twat never said anything, but John could tell anyway.

And how Sherlock had looked when he rushed into the flat, coat swirling and eyes positively burning. . . and how he’d looked, sitting in profile, fingers pressed to his lips. . . and the way their eyes had met when they finally realized what the answer was. . . and the sound of his grumbling when John made him go up to the attic. . . and. . . and. . .

And, yep, that would be why John couldn’t sleep.

He’d been doing his level best to not think about this, not think about it at all, but it appeared that now he was so tired his mental defences were wearing down. If he ever wanted to get to sleep, he knew he was going to have to think about this, if only a little. Just to calm himself down.

But there was no point in that, was there? If he was going to think about it at all, he might as well do a good job. If he only thought about part of it, and didn’t make any sort of decision, this would become a habit. Every night he’d start drifting off to sleep and allow his mind to wander over this issue, and he didn’t want that to happen. Wasn’t sure he could take it.

Okay, John thought resolutely, rolling over onto his back to stare at the ceiling. Okay. There’s the Sherlock issue. There’s the injury issue. There’s the. . . just, generally, issues.

What was there to think about? He’d spent so long keeping these thoughts at bay; now that he was trying to call them up, he almost wasn’t sure what to think about. But. Okay. Start at the beginning.

Sherlock was the beginning, really. Everything started with Sherlock. The mad, brilliant, beautiful, lonesome, irresponsible, stubborn, infuriating, emotionally stunted, socially homicidal, _wonderful_ Sherlock Holmes. God, how John wanted him.

There it was. He thought it again, and again, forcing the words to become familiar. I want Sherlock Holmes. I want him. I want Sherlock. I want him, I want him, I want him. . .

Good. That was that firmly established. Moving on.

John wanted Sherlock. Sherlock did not want anyone. Not sexually, at least. He’d told John the second night that he wasn’t interested, not in him, not in anyone, and in all the years they’d known each other there had only been one person that caused John to doubt Sherlock’s asexual orientation: Irene Adler. But they’d never slept together. John knew. He would have been able to tell. And though she was purportedly dead (with the Holmeses, who could ever be sure?), there was no telling what Sherlock had got up to during his hiatus, with Adler or anyone else.

Much as he could pretend to speculate, John knew Sherlock hadn’t gotten up to any of _those_ kinds of shenanigans. His friend had changed a lot since they’d first met, and had changed a lot in the year he was away, but John could still tell. Sherlock still didn’t want anyone.

But Sherlock _did_ want John.

Not sexually. That was one of the things that had really thrown John when he first moved in. It took a little while for him to finally understand: Sherlock did want John, and Sherlock was asexual, and the two were not the same thing. John wanted Sherlock in his bed, in his mouth, in his arms; Sherlock wanted John in his life. It was a different kind of want.

John sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand. No, that wasn’t entirely true. If he could just pretend it was entirely sexual attraction he felt for Sherlock, he’d be able to get over it. After all, that’s what he’d been doing all these years. Channelling his desire for his flatmate onto people who actually _would_ sleep with him; easing his sexual frustration so he could keep living at 221B and not loose the most important thing, the most important _person_ , in his life. He’d been able to get over it before, it would be easier now. He could resign himself to never kissing that mouth, never feeling those arms around him. He could live with that.

But that wasn’t all he wanted. Not by a long shot.

The short version was: he simply wanted _Sherlock_. All of him. And there was no way he was ever going to have him.

There. That was a true thought, too. So he repeated that one to himself until the words were familiar, rolling around in his mind, just as firmly established as the fact that he wanted Sherlock: I will never have him. I will never have him. I will never have Sherlock. Never, never, never. Sherlock will never be mine. I will never have him.

It was--- too much. John made the litany familiar, and then found himself curled on his side, knees drawn up, hands pressed to his gut. Think of something else.

His hand slid down a few inches, to the empty place in his pyjama bottoms where the rest of his cock used to lay. Okay. Less painful. Think about this instead.

As he had already figured out, his sex life was over. He was slowly resigning himself to the fact that not only would he never have sex with Sherlock, he would never again have sex with _anyone_. That part of his life was done. Sex was now nothing more than a fond memory.

A thought struck him, and he nearly smiled. Looked like John was asexual now, too.

Which meant. . . which meant. . .

Now he and Sherlock _did_ want the same thing.

Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. . .

What if there was a chance, now? What if there was really a chance? Not for sex, not for anything physical, but just for _Sherlock_? What if they could have something?

With sex taken completely off the table, it was just possible that Sherlock wouldn’t be so freaked out by the prospect of a romantic relationship with John. After all, they were practically _in_ a relationship already. Certainly everyone thought so. John knew that a few words and sex were all that had been keeping them apart. The only thing that separated how they were now from how they could be was ‘let’s get together’ and a tumble in the hay. And with half of that, the part that would be worst for Sherlock, taken away entirely. . .

Maybe Sherlock always held a bit of himself back because he knew John liked sex. Maybe he had feared (rightly so, John sighed) that if he ever pursued a romantic relationship with John, John would want to sleep with him.

If John was the only person Sherlock had ever been close to, and now sex was off the table, and John wanted him _so much_. . .

The thought was euphoric. John tried to hold on to it, but he was too happy now, too relaxed, and too tired to do anything but drift off to sleep, more content than he had been in years.

 

* * *

 

The next three days were uneventful. Sherlock spent them whirling in and out of the flat at all hours, never giving any indication he wanted John to join him, so John threw in the towel and lounged around in his pyjamas and robe. No point trying to seduce anyone, least of all Sherlock. In fact, it was probably better to show that John now no longer had a care in the world for the physical. That might get Sherlock’s brain turning, might show him John was no longer interested in sex. Might get him thinking that maybe they could be together without it.

Lestrade, Molly, Harry, and a few other concerned friends called, but he told them all he was recovering and that no, there was no lasting damage. Just some injuries to the stomach. He would see them when he felt more up to it.

He spent most of his time reading, or on his computer, or watching crap telly, or sleeping. He slept a lot, for which he was grateful. Objectively, the more he slept the faster he would heal, but subjectively he was just glad to get away with passing the time unconscious.

He had a doctor’s appointment a week after being released from hospital. Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Hudson insisted on accompanying him, and read a magazine in the waiting room while John went in to see Dr. Niven. The physical examination was hard for John to bear, but he was glad it happened if only because Dr. Niven confirmed that he could stop using the catheter. Just a few more days, Dr. Niven said, and John would probably be fully healed.

When John got back to the flat, after depositing Mrs. Hudson in 221A with a profusion of thanks, he didn’t make it all the way to his own flat before the door to 221B flew open and Sherlock came hurtling down the stairs.

“Case, John, case!” he cried, snatching at John’s wrist on the way.

John couldn’t help the enormous grin that plastered onto his face as they rushed out the door and hailed a cab. He managed to hold on to that grin, even if it became a bit more stiff, when they arrived at the crime scene and Sherlock buggered off to see the corpse while what felt like half the Met bore down on John. They clapped him on the back and shook his hand and said God, he was so lucky, and they’d all been so worried about him, and what would they do without him, and he was _so_ lucky, it could have been so much worse. . .

“John!” Sherlock’s impatient voice cut through the chatter, and John managed to extricate himself to go kneel by the corpse. He could have seen just as well from the other side, but instead he gingerly knelt next to Sherlock, their shoulders almost brushing.

“Thank you,” whispered John. “I’m not sure if you did it on purpose or not, but thank you for rescuing me from that just now.”

Sherlock nodded. After a moment he asked, “Cause of death?”

And then they were back. John and Sherlock, exactly as they always were. John gave his opinion, Sherlock told Lestrade to interview the victim’s mother’s fiancé, and Lestrade replied that the victim was estranged from her mother, and hadn’t had any contact with her in twenty years. Sherlock, naturally, spouted five minute’s worth of astounding deductions and incredidble, flawless logic, John stretched the English language to contain his admiration, and he and Sherlock turned to swirl off dramatically into the night.

“John!” called Lestrade’s voice from behind him. John glanced over his shoulder, and he knew that face. That was Lestrade’s let’s-talk-but-not-where-Sherlock-can-hear-us face.

“Why don’t you flag a taxi, I’ve never any luck with that,” said John to Sherlock. “I’ll go intercept Lestrade so you don’t have to deal with him.”

“Meet at the corner,” said Sherlock, and he was off.

A moment later Lestrade was standing next to him. They stared each other for a minute, and then Lestrade clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder again. “I really am glad you’re okay, John,” he said.

John smiled. Genuinely, this time. “Thanks, Greg. I. . . yeah. I’m glad I’m okay, too.”

Lestrade removed his hand and they stood for a moment in companionable silence before Lestrade said, “John, are. . . is everything okay with you two?”

“What?” John turned to look at him, confused. “Well. . . yeah. Yeah. No different than normal, I guess."

“Oh,” was all Lestrade replied.

John looked at him more closely. He may not be Sherlock bloody Holmes, but he could tell when Lestrade had something to say and didn’t want to say it.

“Come on, Greg,” he said. “Out with it.”

Lestrade looked away, then back at John. “Look, I’m not saying I understand Sherlock Holmes,” he began. “I’m not saying anything like that. I certainly don’t know him half as well as you. But I do know that he’s not. . . not a very _demonstrative_ fellow.”

John chuckled. “I’d noticed.”

Lestrade smiled, more at ease. “Look, John, I don’t know if it’s my place to say, but. . . sometimes people need to hear things, and I doubt this is something you’re going to hear from him.”

Lestrade paused. John motioned for him to go on, curious.

“He cares about you,” said Lestrade. “He cares about you a great deal. No, I’ve no idea what form that affection takes. Maybe you’ve never even kissed, maybe you’re secretly married. I’ve no idea, and honestly, John, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve never seen him like this. He just. . .” Lestrade looked away, then back at John. “Like I said. He cares about you.”

John nodded, thrusting his hands in his pockets. It was nice to hear, but _God_ it was awkward for two blokes to have a conversation like this. “Thanks, Greg,” he said.

Lestrade nodded. John nodded back. They shook hands, firmly, and John made his way up the road to where Sherlock was waiting. Almost as soon as he got there, a taxi pulled up as if by magic, and they were on their way back to Baker Street.

 

* * *

 

A week and two cases later John had another doctor’s appointment. He was told that he was fully healed, and that while he should avoid any strenuous activities, he no longer needed medication, and that he would not be required to set up another doctor’s appointment, aside from a check-up in six months. Most people, said Dr. Niven, would have needed to come back once or twice more, but as John was himself a doctor he was sure John was more than capable of handling anything that might come up. And of realizing when he needed outside help, Dr. Niven added with a pointed look.

So that was it, then, John thought on his way back to Baker Street. That was it. It was over. The whole thing was over. This was. . . this was normal, now.

Sherlock was doing experiments at the kitchen table when John got back. Without a word John took of his coat and shoes, then went up to his own room and called Mary. They spoke pleasantly for a few minutes before John knew he wasn’t going to tell her. Was never going to tell her, was never going to make the effort to get her to love him anyway. Sherlock or no, sexual frustration or no, none of it was worth the effort anymore. So he said he really ought to be going. She agreed; had a lot of papers to grade. They said good bye with polite finality, not even bothering to pretend they were ever going to see each other again. As soon as he hung up John deleted her number.

John changed into sweats with the intention of calling it an early night and curling up on the couch with leftover chicken tikka masala and a new episode of Jonathan Ross, but he fell asleep on his bed before he could. When he woke, hours later, and saw that it was four in the morning, he groaned. He’d never get back to sleep, not after he’d slept for so long already, but it was too Godawful early to get up. . .

He wasn’t surprised to hear strains from some beautiful and unknown classical piece drifting through the floorboards. He rolled under the duvet and focused his mind on the sound of Sherlock’s violin until he fell back asleep.

* * *

 

 

John was awakened for the second time that day by a loud thump from downstairs. He rolled over and looked at the clock; it was just gone seven thirty. Sighing, he decided to hell with it and got up.

“Sherlock?” he called when he reached the kitchen, not overly concerned by the thump that had woken him. “Everything okay?”

“Case!” yelled Sherlock from the vicinity of his bedroom.

John chuckled. Five minutes later he was sitting comfortably in his armchair, tea on one side, toast on the other, paper spread on his lap. He couldn’t say all was well with the world, but all was. . . as good as it was ever going to be, he supposed.

He felt like laughing. Laughing at himself, at this whole stupid business. Who did that? Who did that happen to? Get hit by a car, no serious injuries except loosing half your dick. It sounded like some sort of awful joke. A doctor--- no, better yet, an ex-soldier with half a dick walks into a bar. . .

He should be grateful. He _was_ grateful. Lestrade may not have realized how much John wanted to punch him when he said so the other night, but John knew he had been lucky. He could have died. He could have broken his pelvis, which would have made him _want_ to die and would have taken much, much longer to recover from. He could have hit his head.

“John! John, case!” Sherlock yelled again. There were more thumps, but not as loud this time. Sherlock muttered something. John giggled.

Stopped giggling as a thought occurred to him. He could have hit his head. He could have--- God, not just died. He could have ended up in a permanent vegetative state. He could have lost part of his memory. Part of his personality. Fine motor control. His sight. His hearing. Facial recognition. Short-term memory. Long-term memory.

He could have lost Sherlock.

Lost him in more ways than one; any of those complications could have driven John and Sherlock away from each other. He could have become useless in a fight and no longer needed on cases. Could have ended up in a coma, locked in his own body and mind, trapped somewhere Sherlock couldn’t reach him. Could have forgotten enough of his life to no longer remember the mad genius. Could have lost one of his senses, and spent the rest of his life unable to see Sherlock’s face or hear his voice. Mad as that was, the next thought was madder: could have spent the rest of his life able to see but unable to _recognize_ Sherlock’s face. . .

What if he’d lost Sherlock, really lost him, in the worst possible way? What if John had ended up in such a state that Sherlock _left_ him?

It was at that moment that Sherlock trudged into the living room, dragging a suitcase.

“What are you _doing_?” John almost screamed, jumping up from his chair.

Sherlock shot him a quizzical look, but continued dragging the huge, ugly thing towards the couch. He sat down and flipped the lid up before saying, “Packing. Obviously.”

John sank back into his chair. It was just because he was being ridiculous, he told himself. He was thinking silly thoughts, and this was just a coincidence.

He glanced at the suitcase. That looked pretty definite, though.

“Hurry up, John. We’ll use yours as a carry-on; it’s smaller than this one. Go hurry up and get your things.”

John’s brow furrowed as he reviewed his entire morning in his head. Nope--- he still had no idea what was going on.

“Sherlock,” he said slowly, “you do realize I only just woke up? Ten minutes ago? Anything you said before that I didn’t hear.”

“I didn’t speak until you called me, but I expected you to be able to work it out on your own. I did _tell_ you we have a case, John.”

“Ah,” said John, folding the paper. Then he took his dishes to the sink, turned on the water, and called over his shoulder, “What’s the suitcase for, then? How’s that fit in?”

“Really, John, perhaps you ought to have another cup of tea. Think about it. I have said we have a case. I have a suitcase here in front of me. I have told you I am packing. I have told _you_ to gather your things and also pack. Now, what could all those unrelated facts possibly add up to?”

John grinned down at the soapy water. “Just about anything, coming from you and relating to a case.”

Sherlock huffed and began to speak, but John cut him off. “No, really, think about it, Sherlock. The obvious answer is that we’re going on a case out of town. But it could just as easily mean that we’re moving into 221C for the night. Or that we’re _pretending_ to go out of town. Or that you’re conducting an experiment to see what normal people, such as myself, automatically pack when under a heavy time constraint and duress, in which case we wouldn’t even be going _anywhere_.” He turned away from the sink and leaned against the counter, grinning. “The possibilities are nearly endless.”

He was pleased to see that rather than scowling, Sherlock was smirking at him. “I’ll give you one last hint: in this case, the simple answer is the true one.”

“Ah,” said John. “Going out of town for an out-of-town case, then. How far?” He walked back into the living room, leaning against the back of his chair to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked back without blinking. “Why the histrionics?”

John blinked instead. “Beg pardon?”

“When you saw the suitcase. You reacted the same way you did that time I brought home the mole-rats--- and no, John, I still think your terror of them was completely unfounded. I kept them in their cage the whole time, anyway. Why did you react like that?”

John crossed his arms, indignant at the mere memory. “Because they were creepy, Sherlock. Can’t help it if they gave me the heebie-jeebies.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not to the mole-rats, John, do keep up. I meant why did you react that way to the suitcase?”

“Oh,” said John dismissively, uncrossing his arms, knowing full well he’d never be able to hide something this obvious from Sherlock and deciding to just skip the fight and tell him straight off. “I thought you were leaving.”

“I _am_ leaving.”

“I _meant_ I thought you were leaving alone. Without me,” he clarified.

“That’s exceptionally stupid, even for you, John. Why on earth would you think that?”

John shrugged, deciding right then that the small tear on the back of his chair was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. He knew that once Sherlock had a scent like this he was unlikely to let it go until he’d gotten the full reason out of John, so he might as well just out with it. The more he tried to hide it, the bigger deal it would become. Didn’t mean he had to like it, though. “I had just been pondering how much worse--- how much worse the accident could have been. It occurred to me that, in the case of certain unsavoury outcomes, you wouldn’t have much wanted to hang around. So I was already considering you leaving, and then you came out with that suitcase. . . I reacted before I thought. Sorry.”

After thirty seconds had passed in silence, John looked at Sherlock, more because of curiosity than bravery.

The look Sherlock was giving him was perfectly inscrutable. Not emotionless, not blank; it looked like he wasn’t trying to hide anything in his expression. That just made the fact that it was unreadable all the more worrisome.

After a moment Sherlock’s face twisted into the picture of disdain. “Oh, John, that is so _stupid_. So patently brain-dead even Anderson would be laughing. You can’t honestly think I’d leave you because of any sort of injury you could ever receive.”

John shook his head, feeling unreasonably like he needed Sherlock to understand this. “I don’t just mean a physical injury, Sherlock. I could have hit my head. I could have lost part of my memory, or motor skills, or personality---”

“As I said,” Sherlock cut in, too loudly, “you can’t honestly think I’d ever leave you.”

Before John could react to that--- before he could even decide how he _wanted_ to react to that, to say thank you or let it pass or return the sentiment--- Sherlock leapt to his feet and strode from the room. John rubbed his forehead. Sherlock was going to pretend he hadn’t just said that, so John supposed it would be kindest if he did the same.

“Where are we going, then?” John called. “Got to know how to pack.”

“Spain,” said Sherlock, re-emerging into the living room with clothes piled in his arms.

“Spain?” John spluttered. “Spain? That’s a bit far afield for us, isn’t it?”

“What were you expecting, that we’d go to all this trouble for a trip to Manchester? Don’t be ridiculous. Go get your things.”

“But--- but--- _Spain_!” said John. Sherlock may have spent a year roaming the world, had probably even spent time in Spain, but as far as John had observed the wandering had only made Sherlock love London all the more violently. John wasn’t sure he’d left the city at all since he’d come back.

Sherlock was sitting on the couch, folding his expensive suits and shirts with a care he usually reserved for delicate, microscopic experiments.

“You’re never going to keep them unwrinkled, no matter how you fold them,” John pointed out. “Don’t you have a suit bag or something?”

“Of course. Too conspicuous.”

John couldn’t help grinning at the implications. “Sounds dangerous, if we have to worry about being observed as soon as we arrive.”

Sherlock smiled hugely, obviously pleased with John’s deduction, but all he said was, “Probably before we take off, actually.”

“Jesus,” said John. “Sounds more than a bit dangerous.”

Sherlock’s smile grew even wider. “ _Exactly_ ,” he said. “ _Very_ dangerous. It’s perfect. Just what you need.”

“Hold on,” said John, instinctively standing up straight. “Just what _I_ need? Since when do I need dangerous cases in Spain?”

Clearly no longer paying much attention to their conversation, Sherlock said, “Worked last time.”

With a horrible kind of ‘click’ it slid into place in his head, and John realized what he meant.

“Am I to understand,” John said slowly, “that you’re drawing a parallel between this case and the first case we worked together?”

Sherlock took the now-folded shirts and started meticulously placing them one by one in his suitcase. He appeared to have not heard the question, but he could have been just ignoring it.

“Answer me,” said John.

“Hmm, what?” Sherlock dragged his eyes away from his stupid silk shirts and looked at John. “Did you say something?”

“Are you drawing a parallel between this case and the cabbie murders?” John refrained from calling it A Study in Pink, knowing that Sherlock would be more than happy to use John’s blog as an effective distraction.

“Not between the cases. Obviously. They’re completely different.”

“Fine. Are you drawing a parallel between what happened during the cabbie murders and what you hope will happen on this case?”

Sherlock was looking at the suitcase again, but the side of his mouth was twisting up in a smirk, his cheek going crinkly and wrinkled and dammit, John did not want this man’s pity.

“I’m not looking to find a new friend on this one, no,” Sherlock said.

“Dammit, Sherlock, you know what I mean!” John slammed his hand into the back of his chair.

Unperturbed, the Sherlock shrugged and said distractedly, “I don’t see what the big deal is, John. It worked last time, it’ll work this time. It’s supported by conclusive empirical evidence, though I’ll admit that evidence is from only the one previous occurrence. Do _try_ to keep from needing this again, John. And I doubt that your knowing about it will change the outcome, so never fear.”

John watched, mouth open, as Sherlock eyed the stack of shirts in the suitcase critically, shook his head, lifted the top three and rearranged them.

“That--- You--- you prat. You complete and utter _twat_. I am not some, some _experiment_ \---”

“It has to be done anyway, John, I fail to see why we should waste the opportunity to acquire useful knowledge. Besides, I had thought you’d be delighted with the opportunity.”

“You--- you wanker,” said John. “I--- this isn’t something that can be cured by chasing through London after a mad cabbie. This--- there’s no cure for this, there’s no---” Sherlock looked up at him, that inscrutable expression on his face again, and John shouted, “I do not have a _psychosomatic penis_ , Sherlock!”

John stared at Sherlock. Sherlock stared at John.

At precisely the same second, they both burst into howls of laughter. He had no idea what Sherlock was laughing at, but John didn’t care. This was mad, utterly mad. John was a soldier and a doctor who had lost half his cock; the man (man!) he’d spent years lusting after not only knew about his deformity, but seemed to think that with some healthy exercise and a dose of adrenaline he could bloody well make it grow back. John doubled over at the mental image and put his face in his hands, resting his elbows on his chair, laughing harder than he had in weeks. Sherlock leaned back on the couch, giggling up at the ceiling, before rising and making his way back to his bedroom, presumably for more clothes.

“Get your things,” chuckled Sherlock as he passed John.

John just laughed harder. Laughed until he howled, laughed until he was almost screaming, laughed until he couldn’t see and couldn’t breathe. He forced himself under control, forced enough oxygen into his system to be able to walk away from the living room, and up the stairs, and into his own room, still laughing as he closed and locked the door.

And then he slid down his door and laughed and laughed and laughed, and laughed until tears were streaming down his face, and laughed until he cried, and then he laughed until he wasn’t laughing anymore.

Half an hour later, when John came down the stairs carrying his bag that had been designated their carry-on and the armful of clothes he deemed appropriate for Spanish weather and a week-long case, if Sherlock noticed his hoarse voice or reddened eyes, he said nothing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains marsdaydream's prompt, the two words that originally inspired this fic: "psychosomatic penis."
> 
> . . . Admittedly, I may have gotten a little carried away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on the schedule: Wow, guys. Wow. It has been an unpardonably long time since I've updated. However, RL has been beating me to a bloody pulp, and this chapter was a bitch to write. So never fear! The next three chapters are written; just some light edits between Miyako and myself before they can be posted. God willing, there will NEVER be such a long wait between chapters again.
> 
> As always, love and eternal gratitude to Miyako Toudaiji; without her mad beta skillz this chapter would not be half so good as it is. All remaining mistakes are entirely my own.
> 
> I'd like to personally thank everyone who reviewed. Even if I haven't been able to respond to your comment, please know that without each and every one of the reviews I might not have managed to finish this. Knowing that there are people out there (a strange feeling, to be sure) who really want to know what happens was all that kept me going for a while. I'd also like to personally thank Charlie from ff.net, who doesn't have an account and whom I therefore cannot respond to. Your reviews gave me the final kick to get my ass in gear and finish this. So thank you, sweetie, and thank everyone else who's left some love.
> 
> Mild trigger warnings for this chapter: mentions of kidnapping, drugging, human trafficking, murder, mayhem, and in the closet jokes. Nothing graphic.

* * *

 

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John screamed.

John pushed, ran, locked his eyes on Sherlock’s body standing so high above him, tried to get there in time, tried to catch him when he fell. . .

The thug charging Sherlock didn’t stop, didn’t try to dodge, didn’t even break stride when Sherlock nimbly stepped out of the way and whirled as the thug went past him, planting his hands on the thug’s lower back to give him a hard push.

The thug stumbled, tripped, tumbled, fell, fell, fell. . .

John reached out, eyes raised as though to Heaven, watching as Sherlock swayed, feet firmly planted on the ledge but arms waving for balance, right on the very edge of the twenty-foot drop onto a solid concrete floor.

Sherlock turned, and saw him. Their eyes locked. John was still charging forward, and knew that at any second Sherlock would ask him to turn, to go back, back the way he came, do this for me, John, just this one thing. . .

“John!” Sherlock yelled, his face twisting not in grief, but in anger. “Behind you!”

Instinctively, John ducked, whirled, led with his elbow and threw all his weight into the turn. His elbow connected with someone else’s stomach with a satisfying, meaty thud.

Right. Bad guys. Armed bad guys. In Spain. Abandoned subway station. Trying to kill Sherlock. Trying to kill John. One had fallen; three to go. Right. Right.

John’s SIG was on the floor twenty paces away, clip empty, and his left hand would need a bit of ice before he could comfortably make a fist again. Nevertheless, he was able to use his right hand to get a good hold on the next man’s collar and backhand him viciously enough to disorient him. He was only dizzy for a moment, but it was more than long enough for John to nick his gun.

After that it was simple. The other two thugs were disposed of (one with rather less. . . guilt than the other, because when John shot him he was going after Sherlock with a knife) before Sherlock had even managed to make his way back down the metal stairs to John.

John stood over the last of the thugs, energy and sweat pouring off his skin. The only sound was his desperate breathing, and Sherlock’s quick footsteps behind him, and a distant _plink, plink, plink,_ as of tears.

“John!” Sherlock crowed gleefully, only four paces away and coming closer, “John, that was _fantastic_! Did you _see_ when that other one---”

Sherlock’s words were lost as John whirled and punched him in the face.

There was a thud as Sherlock hit the floor, and then the only sound was John’s desperate breathing as he looked down on Sherlock, and the faitest metallic clatter as the gun in his hand shook, and the ever-distant _plink, plink, plink._

Sherlock wasn’t breathing at all, was just lying on the damp concrete with his legs sprawling and his coat tangled beneath him and one elbow propping him up with the other hand on his cheek. His mouth was open in shock, eyes wide, staring up at John.

_Plink, plink, plink._

“Sherlock Holmes,” John said, voice steady and normal and not betraying the slightest hint of the unidentifiable emotions clawing at the back of his throat, “don’t you ever do that to me again.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and John hated that, hated that Sherlock was gazing up at him with sweat in his hair and blood on his cheek and that look on his face that said he’d found a puzzle, his deducing face, his not-bored-now face, the face that said he was going to take what John just said and make a case out of it.

_Plink, plink, plink._

“John,” said Sherlock, sitting up slowly and dropping both hands into his lap, but that was as far as John let him get.

“That, Sherlock,” John gestured roughly with his gun-free hand towards the death-drop Sherlock had recently been standing atop, while never taking his eyes off his face. “You’re never allowed to do that again.”

Sherlock _rolled his eyes_. Actually raised them to Heaven like he couldn’t believe what he had to put up with, and sighed like he was the most long-suffering of men.

_Plink, plink, plink._

“John, I walked down the stairs, as you may have noticed. I didn’t actually fall---”

“Yes you did.”

That got Sherlock’s attention. Now his eyes, his impossibly light eyes, his eyes that had looked so bright with the red, red blood softly slipping along his skin and the hazy morning rain, those eyes that had been too bright and too perceptive right from the beginning, those eyes were staring at John. This time, at least, Sherlock had the grace to look confused.

“You did,” John repeated firmly. Swallowed. Kept going, not a hitch in his voice. “You fell. I saw you. I was there. You are never allowed to do it again.”

_Plink, plink, plink._

Before Sherlock could stop him, before John could stop himself, he shoved the gun into the back of his pants, stalked to Sherlock’s prone body and grasped the back of his collar, hauling him roughly to his feet. Unheeding of Sherlock’s yelped protest, unheeding of the hair tangled in his fingers that he was no doubt viciously pulling, unheeding of Sherlock’s stumbling, unbalanced steps, John dragged him to the body of the man who had fallen and died.

Still holding Sherlock by the scruff of his neck, John dug into Sherlock’s pocket, grabbed his phone, pressed a button to light the screen, slapped it into Sherlock’s hand, and turned the light onto the man’s bloody skull.

Forcing Sherlock’s head down, John commanded, “Look at him.”

John turned and walked away, unable to stay one moment longer and maintain control of himself. One more second near Sherlock and John would have done something he’d live to regret.

Or not, as the case may be. Perhaps one more second of baring his soul to the deducing face and John would have simply shot himself.

He walked out of the huge, echoing space into a smaller corridor. The lights weren’t working that well, but the flickering illumination was enough for John to find the supply closet they’d passed on their way in. He managed to get the door open and closed, then discovered that the closet was just barely large enough to hold a full-grown man if he sank to the floor and curled up around himself and pressed his face to his knees.

_Plink_

_Plink_

_Plink_

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock’s footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond the closet, then paused just outside the door. John had collected himself enough to face him again, had wiped his face thoroughly and brushed as much of the dust and rubble as he could from his clothes, and was just standing when Sherlock paused. Without any hesitation, John opened the door.

Without looking at his friend, John stepped out of the supply closet, closed the door behind himself, and started walking back towards the surface. After a moment, Sherlock followed him.

John only stayed in the lead for a few moments before Sherlock’s long legs caught up with him, their footsteps echoing hollowly off the concrete walls of the corridor, and then Sherlock took his customary place a pace and a half in front of John and to the right. John’s heart ached.

Secretly, John had hoped that they would be attacked once they started moving again. Or maybe, even, that the sounds of conflict would have been what drew him out of his hidey-hole in the first place. Because this was difficult. Walking down a damp, dim hallway with Sherlock, nothing to break the silence but their footsteps and dripping water, nothing more sinister impinging on John’s senses than the occasional rat.

There was no distraction. There was nothing forcing him to focus on anything, anything at all, which meant his mind could go where it would. He couldn’t force himself into doctor mode or soldier mode, not now, not today, not after he thought he was going to watch Sherlock fall again. Anything else he could have dealt with. Anything else he could have pushed to the side, brushed away until he was ready to deal with it. But this. . . _this_ he wasn’t sure he could handle. Not on two hours of sleep and an empty stomach. The only thing that could get the image of That Day out of his head would be a brawl, and since the only person here was Sherlock, John would have to simply suffer through it.

So suddenly John stumbled back a pace, Sherlock whirled. His eyes were blazing.

“It’s _irrational_ ,” he spat. “It was more than a year ago! How can you still be upset?”

John glared at him. “You have no idea what it does to me, do you? Has it ever occurred to you what it might be like, having to watch _me_ die?”

“But I _didn’t_ _die_ , John!”

“Well I didn’t know that, now did I?”

“You found out soon enough.”

“Months later, Sherlock. You’re the deductive wizard, you should have seen as soon as you got back what those months were like.”

“But they’re _over_ now, John. It’s done. More than a _year_.” Sherlock threw his hands in the air and turned, walking in a circle before coming to a halt in front of John again.

“I suppose I can’t ask you to understand,” John said, voice full of scorn and spite. “After all, it would require you to actually care about me. Only sentiment explains what happens to me when you fall, and we both know how messy that is---”

“Would you stop talking about it in the present tense!” Sherlock cried. “It’s not as though it’s still happening!”

“Yes it is!” John roared. “ _You are **always** falling!_ ”

Sherlock stopped short and stared.

Something in John broke, he could feel the sharp edges of it slicing in his chest, the back of his throat, behind his eyes, between his ears. He brought the heel of his hand up to his eyes and hated himself for finding them moist, hated that he was so weak, hated hated hated that he was doing this in front of Sherlock, but his breath was hitching and he couldn’t stop.

John tried to steady his breathing, took long, deep breaths, rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes until they came away dry.

“John,” Sherlock said. His voice was quiet. John didn’t react.

After a moment, he heard Sherlock’s voice again. It was even more quiet than it had been before. “You said you forgave me.”

John chuckled, glad that it didn’t sound too much like a sob. “Of course I did. Still do. But that doesn’t mean I’m not pissed as _hell_.”

A moment of silence, then Sherlock said, “John--- John, I don’t---”

“This way, isn’t it?” John asked, cutting him off. He brushed past Sherlock, not daring to glance at him, and continued walking down the corridor. By the time they reached the surface they still hadn’t spoke.

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later they were in a dingy loft above an abandoned flat, waiting for a certain someone to enter the café across the street.

John knelt next to the window, checking and rechecking the high-power rifle he and Sherlock had managed to nick from the very criminal organization (human traffickers, the monsters) they were trying to dismantle. Unfortunately they’d only been able to nick a gun, not a silencer, so John would only get one shot. He’d almost layed Sherlock flat with a glare alone when Sherlock asked if he’d need more than one.

John tipped his head, sighting the café door through the scope, minutely adjusting his grip and the tripod that the gun was braced against. “You’re sure he won’t show up this soon?”

“Yes, yes, of course I’m sure. Child’s play,” Sherlock snapped, pacing away behind John. If it was a bid for attention, he was going to be disappointed. John could perform major surgery on a battlefield, he could certainly set up a shot with Sherlock Holmes raving in the background. Child’s play, indeed.

John glanced towards the flag above the café door he was using to gague the wind and was pleased to see it was still hanging straight and limp. He was just glad they didn’t have to start watching their backs just yet; until John pulled the trigger, no one in the organization would know that anyone was after them. It was a large organization, well-funded and international. The higher-ups had finally begun to feel secure enough in their power to begin kidnapping women from English-speaking nations, which was ultimately when Sherlock became involved.

As soon as he found out what the case was about, John had suggested that they go for the quiet and thorough approach. He was in favor of hacking computers, copying databases, alerting authorities and only killing when absolutely necessary, but doing it quietly. Poisons, faked accidents and the like.

Sherlock had just shaken his head. There was a ‘shipment’ due to arrive from England sometime this week. The idea was to make as much trouble as was humanly possible, shake up the higher-ups, and delay the ‘shipment’ long enough for the English authorities to reach it before it left the country. Seeing as none of the methods they intended to employ to wreak havoc on the trafficking ring were, strictly speaking, even kind of legal, the Spanish authorities would have to be kept out of it until at least after Sherlock figured out how to delay the shipment. After that, they’d be free to bring in the authorities (no matter how incompetent they were, even Sherlock was forced to agree that in this case the extra numbers on their side would be helpful) and finish demolishing the organization, at which point John and Sherlock could mostly wash their hands of the matter.

What that meant, though, was that John and Sherlock’s entire roll in bringing down the ring essentially came to this: Raise. Hell.

“And you’re sure no one knows about us yet?”

“ _Yes_ , John! For the hundredth time: no one is looking for us. No one has any idea of the danger they’re in; nor will they, until you shoot someone. _Then_ we’ll have to run for cover, but as of now we’re perfectly safe.”

“Mmm,” said John, not turning around. “And how did you reach that conclusion?”

Sherlock scoffed and launched into an explanation that seemed to be more a treatise on what he thought of John’s intelligence rather than an actual rundown of his reasoning. John tried to hide a smile against the rifle. He knew perfectly well why no one was looking for them yet; he just wanted Sherlock to have something to occupy him for the next five minutes.

With neither an immediate threat nor an immediate target, and with his mind still hideously unsettled from the earlier reminder of Sherlock’s fall, John’s focus started fracturing: while one part of him was still lining up the shot (one part of him would _always_ be lining up a shot), another bit of him was thinking about Sherlock. But with the distraction of the stakeout, with the cold calm that came from being first and foremost a soldier, from the danger- and excitement-induced adrenaline came a startling clarity.

It wasn’t like Sherlock was bloody well going to make the first move.

Hell, Sherlock probably didn’t realize there was something to make a move _towards_ in the first place. Or perhaps he did, but he didn’t want a romantic relationship with John. There was no way for John to know. Sherlock was, to put it kindly, sending mixed signals, and always had. Were it anyone else John might have known what to think, but Sherlock was so _different_ from anyone else John had ever known that there was no way for him to judge what was going on. He had no idea if Sherlock would be okay with dating John, now that there was no possibility of sex.

John’s grip on the rifle tightened. He was still more than halfway focused on the café door and the possibility of the mark showing up before Sherlock had predicted, so the thought didn’t affect him the way it normally would. He accepted it, the same way he’d accepted watching his friends blown to bits on the roads of Maiwand: it was a fact. It was how the universe was, now. A soldier and a doctor had no time to mourn facts, had no capacity to wish things were different.

All a soldier and a doctor could do, could ever do, was work with what he had. No bullets? Use a knife. No bandages? Rip something. Sherlock wasn’t in love with him, and may or may not be interested in a sexless romantic relationship? Take what he could get.

“What do you think about dating?” John asked.

“I fail to see how lining up the dates in this particular case would help anything. There’s no chronological pattern beyond the one I’ve already established.”

“Not that sort of dating. Romantic relationships.”

He heard Sherlock throw himself, no doubt dramatically, on the narrow bed behind John and to the left. “Do I really need to explain it again, John? It’s a family-run enterprise, so there are necessarily a few romantic couples---”

“Not the case,” John said, eye never leaving the café door. “I meant you.”

“What about me?”

“What do you, Sherlock Holmes, think of romantic relationships?”

“I’ve made my opinion perfectly clear countless times before.”

“Reiterate.”

“I don’t repeat myself.”

“Summarize and take me through it. Obviously I’ve missed a few things.”

“No more than usual, apparently,” Sherlock grumbled, hardly bothering to lower his voice.

Ever patient, John repeated, “What do you think about dating?”

“Dating? You mean that thing you do, that pointless little mating ritual? Find quarry, identifiable by markings of barely-tolerable physical appeal, and the lowest IQ possible. Torture one another by demanding progressively more insipid, vapid excursions to dull and increasingly bizarre locations--- movie theaters, poorly-lit and overpriced restaurants, tourist attractions--- followed by sloppy, unhygienic copulation with the express wish to achieve the best orgasm possible while avoiding any possibility of procreation. Continue at will until said quarry has either performed to the limit of their abilities during sexual intercourse and cast them aside, or become so stupid and lust-addled you feel the desire to go through a tedious legal process that changes nothing except a few tax forms and requires rings. Grow increasingly more boring, get old, and die alone anyway. Really, John, I can’t imagine why you put up with the things.”

John chuckled. It became an outright giggle when he realized he could actually feel Sherlock glaring at the back of his head. “Well, I guess that summarizes what you think of other people’s relationships pretty well.”

Sherlock harrumphed. “You’re the one who asked,” he pointed out.

“I did ask, but that wasn’t an answer to my question.”

“Yes, it was. You asked what I thought of romantic relationships and I’ve told you. That constitutes an answer, John.”

John chuckled again. “Fine. I’ll rephrase. What do you think of romantic relationships involving yourself?”

“Do keep up, John, I just _told_ you---”

“No,” John cut him off, “you told me what you think of _other people’s_ romantic relationships. I’m asking about you, specifically.”

“Your phrasing is appaling, John,” Sherlock sneered. Which, John knew, meant ‘I don’t understand the question,’ though Sherlock would never be able to say the words.

“It’s like this, Sherlock,” said John, trying to work out how to explain, “it’s just--- look, that’s a sort of abstract idea of relationships. It’s non-specific. I’m not asking about relationships in general, I’m asking about relationships _you_ are involved in. It’s like--- like I’m asking what you look like, and you’re saying ‘I have two arms and two legs and a face.’ It’s too broad, too general, and doesn’t take you specifically into account. Do you see the difference?”

“I see the difference, I’m not an idiot,” Sherlock snapped. “What I fail to see is why you assume that if I was ever stupid enough to be duped into such a relationship it would follow anything other than tired social norms.”

Had John been anywhere else he’d have put his head down and laughed until he cried. Considering the situation, however, he settled for giggling insanely and saying, “Because it’s _you_ , Sherlock! God, when have you _ever_ done anything the normal way?”

Still giggling, John tried to picture Sherlock behind him. He wasn’t saying anything, but he also hadn’t had the last word, so John knew it was only a matter of time before the man spoke again.

“You’re saying that, were I in a romantic relationship, it would be unlike other such relationships,” said Sherlock slowly. John could tell he’d pursed his lips before he started speaking. “However, were I in a relationship that followed no known social patterns, I fail to see how it could be considered romantic.”

John took a minute to try and figure out what the hell Sherlock was trying to say. After a moment he said, “Our friendship’s pretty unconventional, and it’s still a friendship.”

“But ‘friendship’ is such a broad term, it can encompass any sort of relationship wherein both parties find each other’s company enjoyable. Even sexual intercourse can be included in a friendship. Romantic relationships are much more specific.”

“True,” said John, “though can I just say for the record that the whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing never, ever ends well. But I see your point. On some level you’re right, I guess,” John paused for a second, eyes flicking to the flag hanging from a window above the café that he was using to judge the breeze, then relaxed when it once again hung perfectly limp. “There is a certain feeling that comes along with a romantic relationship that’s not present in a friendship. A sort of--- I don’t know what to call it. It’s difficult to tell the difference between a friendship and a romance from the outside, sometimes.”

“Obviousy,” Sherlock said, and John could tell he was thinking of all the times they had been mistaken for a couple.

“The thing is,” John said quickly, suddenly almost giddy with the realization that he could explain everything to Sherlock, could show him that if they did do the romance thing it wouldn’t have to be like everyone else, and it wouldn’t have to include sex, “there are a lot of different aspects to a romantic relationship. The underlying feeling is always the same, though. You’ve always got a crush on the person you’re with, always fancy them, you know? If you don’t, well, then it’s not a good relationship. But aside from that, aside from that feeling of romantic love for them, all other aspects vary from couple to couple.”

Sherlock’s voice was alive with interest when he snapped, “Elaborate.”

“Like I said, there are lots of different aspects. Whether or not you’ll be monogamous, level of commitment, whether or not you go public, how far you do or don’t go sexually--- it’s all different depending on who it is.”

Sherlock was silent. John could almost feel the cogs in that massive brain whirring.

Now or never, John thought. “Like, for example, some couples are very sexually open. Sometimes that means each partner is allowed to have sex with other people. Sometimes it means they engage in sex acts as a couple that are kinky or fetishized. And sometimes,” John tried not to let his mouth run away with him, tried to make sure he didn’t sound like some sort of eager teenager, “a romantic relationship is wholly without sex. Sometimes one or both partners are unable, physically, to have sex. Or one of them is asexual. Or one of them had a traumatic experience that put them off sex. Anything. Sometimes romantic couples stay together for years, even forever, without ever having sex. Some couples do nothing more than kiss, and touch each other affectionately but non-sexually. Anything’s possible.” He snapped his mouth shut before he could say something that was obviously no longer theoretical.

“An almost infinite number of variables,” Sherlock breathed behind him.

“Exactly,” said John. “Almost infinite aspects to any relationship, and an almost infinite number of characteristics that makes each partner a unique human being. Each aspect of the relationship can be tailored to match the combined needs of both partners.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, “oh, that is _brilliant_. Why has no one ever. . . John,” Sherlock suddenly said loudly, sitting up, and why could John still feel him glaring at the back of his head? “If that’s the case, why have _you_ never had a good relationship that actually met any of your needs? If each---”

Gunshot.

The roar echoed through the tiny room, bounced back and forth between the buildings lining the street. There was screaming from outside the window, and the sudden noise of running feet.

“Sorry,” said John absently, ducking down belown the window with the gun so no one saw him. “Mark showed up. Didn’t have time to warn you.” After a moment he added, almost smugly, “Right between the eyes.”

He twisted around to look at Sherlock, who was frozen on the edge of the bed, obviously startled by the sudden, deafening noise.

Seeming to realize John was watching him, Sherlock glared at him. Very intensely. John smiled sweetly. “You did that on purpose,” Sherlock hissed.

“I did not. And we should leave, um, right now.” He was crouched beneath the window, already disassembling the gun and fitting it neatly into its case. He’d have to clean it later.

It was true, anyway. He certainly hadn’t fired just to forestall Sherlock’s question, though he was sending a continuous litany of thanks to the universe that the mark had shown up at precisely that moment.

There was no use speculating on what would have happened if Sherlock had asked why all of John’s previous romantic relationships had failed and John had blurted out, ‘Because none of them were you.’

 

* * *

 

 

“So,” said John conversationally as they flagged down a cab one street over, “if you were in a romantic relationship, what would it be like?”

Sherlock pulled a face. “Despite your ‘infinite number of variables’ approach, I’m sure it would still consist of insipid dates and---”

“No,” John said, exasperated, “we’ve been over this. That’s all there is when other people do it. So that’s what you think of _other people’s_ romantic relationships. But if _you_ were in one, what would it be like?”

“The same, I imagine.”

“No, it wouldn’t be. Nothing containing you is ever the same as it is with anyone else. Okay, so let me ask it like this: if you had romantic feelings for someone--- and I realize how stupid that sounds, but just for the sake of the argument let’s go with the hypothetical here--- if you had romantic feelings for someone, what would your ideal romantic relationship be like?”

Sherlock stared at him.

“Stop basing it on everyone else’s relationships. Clearly that wouldn’t work. Forget about _normal_ , and just think about yourself. Shouldn’t be too hard. What would _you_ want?”

“Taxi’s here,” Sherlock said, pushing him towards the cab.

John grinned. “It’s a lot to think about. I understand. Take your time.”

Sherlock glared. “Shut up.”

John just turned towards the window and smirked.

 

* * *

  

“Monogamy,” John said, roughly twelve hours later.

“Not the time, John,” Sherlock panted.

“Is too. You’ve had long enough to let it. . .” John trailed off for a moment, trying to breathe, before continuing, “had long enough to. . . percolate through that brain of yours. I’m helping you along by. . . watch the pipe!. . . by asking about specific variables.”

Sherlock jumped clean over the pipe and kept running. “ _Really_ not the time, John.”

John couldn’t reply for a few moments, as his lungs were too busy gasping as he tried to run up a fire escape two steps at a time. Once he was about three floors up he managed to call, “What happened to ‘a conductor of light’ and all that?” at Sherlock’s retreating back.

“Do keep up!” Sherlock called over his shoulder. Long-legged bastard was half a flight above John already.

Once they made it to the roof of the building John said, “We’re still capable of speech. I don’t see why this shouldn’t be the topic of conversation.”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you,” Sherlock stated from where he was kneeling before the roof-access door, trying to pick the lock. John noted absently that he still had a bit of whipped cream on the edge of his coat. He wondered if it had happened during the explosions (cherry bombs in each of the main dishes at a large banquet) or when they were fighting their way out of the hall.

Using swords, John couldn’t help but remind himself. Actual swords. Because the point was not to kill everyone at the banquet (most of whom belonged to the family that ran the trafficking ring), the point was to make it _look good_. And if anyone knew how to do something with a bit of dramatic flare, it was Sherlock.

John grinned so wide he wondered if his face would split in half. “No way in hell.”

Sherlock sighed. “Get me the other set of lockpicks. No, the right pocket. What was the question?”

“Monogamy,” John replied, slapping the thin black case into Sherlock’s outstretched hand.

“That’s not a question.”

John was silent for a moment, listening to the sounds of pursuit, but it sounded like everyone was still down below; certainly the fire escape wasn’t rattling under anyone’s weight. “How do you feel about monogamy, I mean. Would you want to be allowed to see other people? Would you want your partner to be exclusive with you or not?”

Sherlock stood with a triumphant smirk, pulling the door open as he tucked both lockpick sets back into his volumous coat. “I do not _share_ , John.”

John continued smiling as he followed Sherlock inside. “Okay, so your partner wouldn’t be allowed to date anyone else. What about yourself?”

“I can hardly fathom having any sort of romantic interest in one person, much less more than one at once.”

“And morally?”

Sherlock sighed. “Were I in a romantic relationship, John, on every level I would expect both my partner and myself to remain rigidly faithful to one another, no matter if we had inclinations to do otherwise."

“In favor of monogamy, then,” John said absently, just before he heard a door somewhere below them bang open, followed by the shouts of their pursuers.

 

* * *

 

 

“Going public,” John whispered.

Sherlock sighed, but quietly. “Still not the time, John.”

John would have shrugged, but had no room to do so. “We’ve nothing else to do but talk.”

“They might hear us, John.”

“We’ll whisper. It’ll be no louder than breathing, anyway.”

“No.”

“You’ll get bored.”

“I’ll cope.”

“You never cope.”

“I could try to cope.”

“ _I’ll_ get bored.”

“Unlikely.”

“See? We’ve been talking for five minutes and nothing bad’s happened.”

“Forty-five seconds and something still might.”

“How would you feel about going public?”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock hissed, clearly exasperated, letting his forehead thump unpleasantly against John’s shoulder. John would have liked to run his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, but was fortunately prevented from doing so. The closet they were mashed into was so small John’s arms were pressed against the walls; he couldn’t lift them if his life depended on it. Which, he hoped, it wouldn’t.

John pressed his cheek against Sherlock’s hair and said, “We can talk about this, or I can start making ‘in the closet’ jokes. Your choice.”

Sherlock groaned, but so quietly John only knew he was doing it because he could actually feel the vibrations. Good thing he was able to control his libido so well when he was in life-and-death situations, otherwise Sherlock definitely would have found out about John’s less than platonic thoughts, if only because his thigh was so firmly between John’s legs. Down, boy.

“Fine,” Sherlock hissed. “Explain going public.”

“Telling people,” John said without missing a beat. “Would you want to keep it a total secret, or sing it from the rooftops?”

“Are those my only options?”

“No, but the ones in the middle can be more complicated. It’s easy to only tell a few people, a few close friends, but not so easy to convince them to not tell anyone.”

“Mycroft would know,” Sherlock said with a shudder.

It was a _really_ good thing John had _iron control of all his physical reactions when he was in a combat situation_ , because God, that shudder.

“Okay, but that’s not really a matter of choice,” John said. “What would you _want_?”

Sherlock didn’t answer for a moment. John got the distinct impression that he was actually thinking about it, was actually considering what it would be like to be in a romantic relationship and weighing his options for allowing the rest of the world to know that. A good, good sign.

“I don’t think I’d want to tell anyone,” Sherlock said at last.

“Why not?” John asked almost absently. It had just occurred to him that he was trying to keep himself from getting a stiffy with Sherlock pressed so firmly against him, when he’d spent so long since the accident worried that he’d never be able to get it up again.

Was reining it in a habit? Or was he actually getting hard? Was. . . God, John knew he was mad about Sherlock, but was it actually possible that. . .

Sherlock snapped, “Because I wouldn’t want anyone else to know.”

John chuckled, then stopped when the gust of air made Sherlock’s hair tickle his nose. “But _why_? Would you be ashamed, or---”

John got no further, because Sherlock shook his head almost viciously, nearly knocking John’s jaw. Fortunately John managed to move just in time and avoid getting his teeth chipped.

“No,” Sherlock hissed, “no, I wouldn’t be _ashamed_. I would--- if I ever was in a relationship like this, John, one that I actually wanted to be in, with someone who actually wanted me, I’d be--- I think I’d be _proud_.”

John didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything. What on earth could he say to something like that?

“Besides,” Sherlock continued with a wry chuckle, and John noticed he still hadn’t lifted his head from John’s shoulder, so his face was still hidden, “I believe it’s the done thing to take one’s partner’s wishes into consideration.”

“True,” said John, “and that’s one of the things that should be true in your relationship, too. What I don’t get is why you assume your partner would want to keep it secret.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock sighed, in that voice that meant he could not _believe_ someone as dim-witted as John actually managed to walk around without hitting the walls, “do you honestly think anyone in a relationship with _me_ would want the rest of the world to know that?”

John’s mouth dropped open.

Unfortunately, John’s mouth was not the only thing that opened, because at that moment the closet door was jerked wide, and for the next several minutes John was more concerned with Sherlock’s _survival_ than his emotional well-being. But only just.

 

* * *

 

“You would have to explain why you did things, why you wanted things. That would include telling your partner about your past,” said John.

“Go to _sleep_!” Sherlock hissed.

“You’re not sleeping.”

“I don’t need to sleep.”

“You do too.”

“Not yet.”

“I’m going to keep talking about this,” John pointed out, pulling the blanket up further. Why, oh why, did they only have one blanket? They could have carried two. Or five. Or, hell, they could just light the bed on fire. Would be warmer.

“Go to sleep. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“Yes, we will,” said John, looking at Sherlock, perched next to the window. How the hell had he not frozen yet? Not that the window was open, but it had to be even colder over there than it was on the bed, away from the window and door, under the one miserable blanket. “But we’re going to talk about it now, too.”

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, very quickly. “Fine!” he hissed at last. “Fine. Talk.”

“I just mean,” John repressed a sigh, knowing it would spark off another round of arguing, “what you said earlier. About your partner not wanting to let anyone know they were going out with you. About them being ashamed of you---”

“I never said that,” Sherlock snapped.

“It may not be what you said, but it’s what you meant.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. Before he could, John continued, “It sounds like. . . like maybe you’ve got some experience that would make you think that’s the case. I’m just saying that, all these decisions you and your partner would make about your relationship. . you’d have to explain why you make those decisions.”

“I don’t see why. That’s no one’s business but my own.”

“Untrue,” said John. “If it’s something that affects both of you, it’s _both_ of your business. That’s part of being in a relationship.”

Sherlock turned to smirk at him. “A _normal_ relationship, maybe. What happened to nothing being normal with me?”

“It’s not necessarily normal,” said John, trying to wrap the blanket around his back so the cold air didn’t skitter down his neck, all without uncovering his feet, “lots of people keep lots of secrets in their relationships. But telling each other things like that is _healthy_.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “Why?”

“You remember that case two months ago? The one with the woman with PTSD?” John could have used his own PTSD as an example, of course, but dammit he and Sherlock weren’t in a romantic relationship yet, and there were still things John wouldn’t tell him.

“Of course,” Sherlock snapped, obviously offended at the idea that he could actually forget something.

“Okay. You remember that the reason she beat that guy up was because he triggered an attack?”

“Yes, John. I was there, too, no need to repeat the whole case.”

“Patience, genius, I’m getting to the point.” John gave up on the blanket and just curled up tighter. Then he spent a moment gathering his sleepy thoughts, trying to find words that were scientific and clinical and would get the point across to Sherlock. “Past experience dictates how we respond to new stimuli. Okay? Relationships--- relationships of any kind, not just romantic ones--- tend to influence us very strongly. One bad relationship and we can get pretty messed up. If your partner knows a lot about your past, they can avoid doing or not doing things that would upset you. Like the woman with PTSD. Right? If her friend had known about any of her triggers, none of that would have happened. You don’t want to do something that might cause your partner to freak out, and you want them to know how to avoid upsetting you.”

“Why should they care about upsetting me?”

“Because they should care about _you_ ,” John said. Horrified.

Sherlock harrumphed. “You’re asking an awful lot of my hypothetical partner, John.”

“I’m asking next to nothing.”

Fortunately, before he could get too worried about what Sherlock might read in that comment, John’s shivers became truly unbearable, and his teeth started chattering.

“Oh, for godssake,” Sherlock said, unfolding off the window seat. “You’ll be no use if you don’t sleep.”

Sherlock went to the foot of the bed and began clambering up it, positioning himself between John and the wall.

“Thank _God_ ,” John groaned, rolling over and raising the blanket so Sherlock could slip underneath it. “I seriously thought I would freeze to death.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Not cold enough for that.”

“Gotten hypothermia, then.”

“Might be cold enough for that,” Sherlock conceded, wrapping the blanket around himself.

John rolled to face the door again, scooting backwards so his back was pressed to Sherlock’s chest. He sighed in bliss when Sherlock wrapped an arm around his chest. “God, you’re warm,” he murmured approvingly.

“Indeed. Now _go to sleep_.”

“Yes, yes, all right,” John said, shifting to get more comfortable. Sherlock was a wonderfully warm weight all down his back, from the crown of his head to the back of his knees. After a moment Sherlock shifted, slowly, so the tops of his feet were pressing to the sole’s of John’s.

“Jesus!” John cried, jolting. “Your feet are _ice_!”

Sherlock began moving away, muttering something, but before he could go any further John ordered, “Here, put them between my calves. They’ll warm up faster. God, Sherlock, next time you’re that cold _say something_! What if you’d gotten frostbite?”

There was silence from behind John for a moment before Sherlock said, “Still technically too warm to get frostbite.”

“Whatever. Just warm up your bloody feet.”

“All right,” Sherlock whispered. There was something in his voice that made John’s heart clench, even when he instinctively flinched as Sherlock’s frigid feet slid between his calves.

Obviously Sherlock expected John to take it none too kindly when he put his cold feet against John’s soles. A completely reasonable expectation, John thought. But the fact that he seemed so thrown that John would try to warm his feet up, that John would try to take care of him, even after all this time. . .

John carefully took stock. His breath was doing funny things, trying to both hitch in sadness and deepen into sleep; his pulse was still slow and steady; Sherlock couldn’t see his face or his pupils. Not much more danger than usual, then.

Not that John was feeling anything like aroused. But, quite honestly, arousal would be much easier to deal with than the blinding ache of raw _affection_ tugging him towards Sherlock.

He wound his fingers through Sherlock’s, clutching his arm to his chest. “Now,” said John, nuzzling his face into the pillow, “be sure to wake me up if anyone comes through the door. I’ll wake up fast, don’t worry. Just make sure you tell me what’s going on.”

“I _know_ , John,” said Sherlock. But he squeezed John closer and pressed his face against the back of John’s neck.

Sherlock didn’t wake him until sunrise, and until then John’s dreams were sweet.

 

* * *

 

“I’d be amenable to such a relationship, provided my potential partner met one specific criterion,” said Sherlock firmly.

John gaped at him.

After a moment John managed to gasp, “. . . _Timing_.”

Somewhere off to the left, one of the girls began crying softly; gasping little sobs that sounded so lost John had to close his eyes for a moment. He looked back at the girl he was tending to, made sure she was propped up against the wall comfortably, before rising and making his way over to the far corner of the shipping container he and Sherlock had _finally_ located.

It turned out that some of the information given to Sherlock at the beginning of the case was faulty, and therefore his estimate of when the ‘shipment’ from England would arrive was a week off. That meant that the shipping container with the kidnapped women had arrived in Spain just a day after Sherlock and John had. Their interference had disrupted the trafficking ring enough to prevent them from moving any of the women from the container, until Sherlock (finding new evidence as he and John raised hell) had realized what was going on, and he and John had bent all their energy on locating the container. Which, at last, they had.

It wasn’t until John squatted down in front of the crying girl that Sherlock’s words finally caught up with him. His breath hitched, but then she let out another sob, and any thoughts John may have had that didn’t deal with helping every single one of these poor women abruptly fled.

Thankfully, none of their injuries were serious. The worst that had happened to them physically was drugs, and there was nothing John could do about that. They’d have to get somewhere safe to detox right away. John grit his teeth when he went over statistics in his head, and realized it was likely that at least twenty of the girls were addicted to the drugs already.

John clenched his hands. The monsters. Kidnapping these poor women, drugging them, treating them like chattal, forcing an illegal and unhealthy addiction on them, leaving them in darkness and fear to await their fate. . .

Sherlock stood just behind his shoulder for a moment. John calmed down. There would be time to deal with all this later. For now, keeping the girls safe was the priority.

 

* * *

 

"What criterion?" John asked.

Sherlock shot him a quizzical look, but didn’t deign to answer.

“You mentioned it earlier. Said your potential partner would need to meet one specific criterion. Do keep up,” he couldn’t help but add, grinning broadly. Sherlock glared at him.

John had been wondering about that criterion ever since the Spanish authorities showed up and he no longer needed to be the one in charge of the situation. After seeing all the girls safely off, he and Sherlock had been summarily arrested, which had been unavoidable. Thankfully, this time Sherlock had seen fit to inform John that they would be arrested long before they had put the final phase of the plan in action, so John wasn’t too upset to find himself sitting on a bench next to Sherlock in the far corner of a holding cell, awaiting the promised Mycroftian rescue.

It wasn’t that John couldn’t think of anything Sherlock would require of a potential romantic partner; rather, it was that John could think of a _hundred_ things, and had no idea how to narrow it down to just one. What one thing would Sherlock require above all others?

They must be scathingly intelligent. They must live on the other side of the world, thus necessitating a long-distance relationship. They must be able to text with only one hand. They must know the periodic table by heart. They must be willing to experiment (though Sherlock would not mean that in anything like the normal sense). They must not have children. They must not interfere with his smoking habit.

John had also spent rather a long time trying _not_ to think of everything Sherlock could say that would automatically (and perhaps pointedly) rule John out. They must be female. They must not be ex-Army. They must not be a doctor. They must be attractive. They must not interfere with Sherlock’s work or experiments. They must not annoy him. They must be able to keep up with Sherlock intellectually.

If only Sherlock would say something _reasonable_ , like they must be able to put up with him or they must care about him above all others. Something easy like that. Something that was already true of John, something he could work with.

Sherlock simply said, “They must understand this nearly infinite number of variables approach of yours, and be willing to use it.”

John looked away so Sherlock couldn’t see his expression. He could _definitely_ work with that.

They both remained silent, their gazes overtly hostile as they kept an eye on all the other inmates of the holding cell. Before John could register what a bad idea it was, he glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock glanced at him at precisely the same moment, and before they could help it they were both giggling like madmen. The adrenaline still coursing through their veins, the triumph of a case well-solved was making them slap-happy. Oh well, John thought to himself, hopefully all the other criminals locked in there with them would think they were simply crazy and would leave them alone.

John glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. His eyes were closed, his face scrunched up with giddy laughter, his hair a wild tumble over his forehead. He’d never looked more handsome. John almost kissed him.

Right, then. He could work with this. He _would_ work with this. Once they got back to London he’d give it a little while to settle, some time for Sherlock’s brain to grow more accustomed to the idea of a romantic relationship, and give them both a little while to come down from the post-case high.

Then he’d ask Sherlock. Ask him to be John’s. . . John’s what, exactly? Boyfriend was a bit juvenial, and they’d already been partners for years. Lovers was both too intimate and something that would remain forever untrue. What, then?

Labels could wait. For now John could laugh, could revel in the pleasant ache in all his muscles from a case gamely and bravely won, and the deeper ache in his chest that was mingled happiness and yearning for the man sitting next to him. Once things settled down in London John would talk to Sherlock about it, and it was just barely possible that Sherlock wouldn’t turn him down.

Still giggling, they rose when one of the guards came in and called their names (despite his obvious effort, John’s name still sounded like ‘Juan Wathon,’ while Sherlock’s was almost unrecognizable). John let Sherlock step out of the cell first, before following on his coattails like always.

He couldn’t live without this, he realized. He’d lived without knowing the feel of Sherlock’s lips against his own for his whole _life_ and hadn’t died yet. But if he lost Sherlock entirely for any reason his life would be well and truly over. Yet he was so desperately unhappy, wanted Sherlock _so much_ , that he wasn’t sure how much longer he could continue seeing Sherlock every day without doing something drastic. The pull between the two options--- take a risk, take the plunge, ask Sherlock to be his romantic partner; or leave things as they were, have to watch him every day without being able to touch him and listen to him being brilliant without saying how much John cared about him, all while risking John snapping one day and either kissing Sherlock senseless or blurting out something embarrassing and having no contingency plan for what to do in either the case of acceptance or rejection--- the pull was overwhelming.

John had no idea what to do. He couldn’t live without Sherlock, but he couldn’t continue living the way they were. He didn’t want to risk loosing him, but he didn’t want to stay with him forever and not really have him. Just before they stepped up to the desk belonging to the leading DI (or whatever they called them in Spain), John finally found a compromise with himself: he would try dating Sherlock, but he would _never_ allow it to go past the point of no return. And if it ever looked like their romantic relationship might drive them apart, John would end it. No matter what.

He took a deep breath. Now all they had to do was get back to London, so John could actually talk to Sherlock about it.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE: Even though this story is a work of fiction, human trafficking and slavery are tragically real and rampant in our world. I strongly urge all of you to donate any time or resources you can spare to some of the many wonderful organizations out there dedicated to helping victims of human trafficking.
> 
> One such organization is Women At Risk International (www.warinternational.com). It's dedicated to helping women and children who are otherwise unable to help themselves; many of them are victims of domestic violence and slavery. They sell beautiful jewelry, scarves, ornaments, etc. that are classy and well-priced. No better place to find Christmas gifts!
> 
> And that concludes today's chapter. Please review if you're enjoying the story; concrit is welcome, as are suggestions.
> 
> Jez out!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this chapter was made much better through the efforts of Miyako Toudaiji, World's Best Beta.
> 
> Also: If you haven't read "The Singularity" by pickledfingers yet, now would be a good time to go do that.

* * *

 

“John,” said Sherlock, “that’s the third time you’ve worn sweats since we got back.” He had barely even bothered looking up from his microscope.

“So?” John asked, walking past him towards the living room.

“ _So_ we’ve only been back for three days.”

“Do we have a case on?” John asked, flicking on the telly but keeping the volume low.

“No.” Sherlock still wasn’t looking at him. John glared at him, watching the long fingers slowly adjust one of the knobs on the microscope.

“Do I have any plans for today?” John continued.

“No.”

“Is anyone coming over?”

“A client might come with a new case.”

“I’ll change. But are we _expecting_ anyone?”

“Not that I know of.”

John nodded. “Therefore, I have no reason to _not_ wear sweats.”

“You always get dressed.”

“Well _you_ lie around in just your pyjamas often enough. Don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

Sherlock harrumphed but said nothing. John turned his attention back to the telly.

They didn’t speak again. The silence stretched on; not unpleasant, or tense. Simply companionable; neither spoke because neither had anything to say.

“Angelo’s,” Sherlock announced.

“What?” John sat bolt upright, and realized belatedly that he’d drifted off in his seat.

“I said we’re going to Angelo’s. They start serving lunch in half an hour; if we leave now we’ll have time to walk and still beat most of the rush.”

John shot him a quizzical look. “The rush never matters when it’s _us_ , Sherlock, they seat us anyway.”

Sherlock smirked into his microscope. He still hadn’t looked up. “That’s true. But it seemed like the thing to say at the time.”

John laughed, then rose and stretched his aching, creaking joints. “Getting old,” he mumbled to himself. Then, louder, “Fine, fine, fine. Just give me a second to change.”

Halfway up the stairs something occurred to him. He turned and went back, poking his head into the kitchen. “You did this just so I’d get dressed.”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

John grinned. “I _knew_ you had a thing for my jumpers.”

The side of Sherlock’s mouth tugged up. “Haven’t I always,” he mumbled, and John laughed.

Five minutes later he was rifling through every jumper he owned and trying very hard not to feel stupid about the fact that he was being very _particular_ about picking exactly the right one.

 

* * *

 

It was a pleasant meal. Sherlock was, of course, right, and they had enough time to walk to Angelo’s without worrying about the lunch rush. Angelo was more than happy to see them--- John hadn’t really noticed, but apparently he and Sherlock mostly turned up for dinner, and Angelo claimed to have a few lunch dishes he knew they’d like that they hadn’t tried yet.

They decided to pass on ordering and just had Angelo bring them whatever he liked, which was a good idea. The food was delicious, the company even more so. Sherlock was more charming than he’d been since before John’s accident. John had hated admitting the pattern to himself, but he could see that he was getting depressed, and he could see that his own low mood was bringing Sherlock down. He didn’t like it, but that was the way it was.

Today, though, it was as though all cares were on hiatus. They talked and laughed. They joked and teased. Sherlock deduced the other customers, John was suitably awed. John deduced the other customers, Sherlock tried to mimic John’s usual awe and failed miserably.

After lingering far too long over the dessert, they said their thanks and farewells to Angelo and turned their faces towards home. The wind was cool, ruffling through their hair as they walked slowly down the road. The sun shimmered through the clouds, lending their surroundings a surreal, glass-bright air. Sherlock’s skin looked more translucent than normal, his hair wind-tousled and soft. John decided Sherlock looked heavenly in the sunlight.

“Sherlock,” said John, glancing up at him before watching his feet, “I was wondering if you would like to pursue a romantic relationship with me.”

“I would,” said Sherlock.

John found himself grinning stupidly, and looked away to hide it. They could talk about it later, he could think about it later, Sherlock could freak out about it later, John could cry about it later, Sherlock could back out later.

For the moment, John was content to simply keep walking through the cool breeze and sunshine, his shoulder bumping lightly against the taller one next to him, Sherlock’s smile wide and genuine.

 

* * *

 

When they got home they took off their coats and toed off their shoes, smiling at each other. Sherlock went back to his microscope, John went to the couch and watched telly. They sat in companionable silence for the rest of the day, and John wanted one day, _one day_ in which he could let his dreams run rampant before he and Sherlock defined what this was, exactly, and he had to stand beside Sherlock and watch some of his old dreams fade away.

So he sat on the couch and listened to the telly and half-fancied he could bloody well _feel_ every time Sherlock so much as shifted, and he let himself dream of everything he’d ever wanted.

For dinner John boiled some noodles and opened a jar of spaghetti sauce. He ate at the kitchen table, and pointedly placed a bowl at Sherlock’s elbow. Sherlock glared at him over his microscope, but John just raised his eyebrows. Sherlock ignored him. John ignored Sherlock ignoring him. After a minute Sherlock huffed and pushed the microscope away, seized the bowl, and ate half of it so fast John was afraid he’d choke. Then he threw the fork down, shoved the bowl away, wiped his mouth on the napkin John held out to him, and turned back to his experiment.

John smiled. When he was finished eating he cleared their bowls, washed up in the sink, straightened up the kitchen. As he was cleaning up he debated with himself: to kiss Sherlock goodnight, or to not? Not on the lips, of course. That would require Sherlock to turn away from the microscope, and the stubborn git would surely refuse. No, all John wanted in the world was to brush the hair away from Sherlock’s face, kiss his temple, and say ‘’Night, then.’

He decided before he was halfway through the washing-up. He wouldn’t do it. Today was a day for dreaming, not for actually _acting_ on any of those dreams. Besides, what if Sherlock pulled away? What if he said something about it? What if a brush of lips triggered the talk that John had been so desperately trying to dream away?

In the end he patted Sherlock’s shoulder, unable to help himself, and walked away from him. It was early, yet, to turn in, but John wanted to keep dreaming. So he changed into his pyjamas and lay on his bed with his hands behind his neck and dreamed, and dreamed, and eventually he drifted off, but even then he kept dreaming of Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

The next morning John spent a ridiculous amount of time deciding what to wear. He had been a teenager once, but had never been a teenage _girl_ and resented the fact that he was acting like one now.

But this was what Sherlock did to him. Turned him into things he’d never dreamed of being. One of which was a man who was incredibly, insanely happy.

John shook his head. Happiness later; clothes now. What to wear? He needed _some_ sort of protection, something to give him the slightest bit of confidence in himself, so he decided against simply wearing his pyjamas. Taking a shower and going to confront Sherlock in just a towel or his robe was so far from any of the personas he wanted to project he didn’t even consider it.

Sweats? Jeans and shirt? What? Sherlock had mentioned how often he wore sweats, so clearly he noticed. John wanted to make it abundantly clear that he was disinterested in sex, disinterested to the extent that he was actively trying to put Sherlock off. That was a point in favor of sweats.

But Sherlock had indicated he liked it when John actually dressed. Not that he’d said as much, but John flattered himself he could read Sherlock well enough to tell what he meant, even when he didn’t say. And that was a decision in favor of dressing.

While he was debating what to wear, John was also forming up a list in his mind. Things to say, things to avoid, things that he wanted to avoid but that had to be said anyway. Ways to deal with the more likely of Sherlock’s responses.

When John finally walked into the living room--- wearing his red button-down and jeans--- he found Sherlock sitting in his chair, violin in his lap. He wasn’t playing, but was carefully polishing it.

John loved him.

Every word but those died in his throat the moment John saw him. He glanced up, a small but genuine smile creasing his face the moment he caught sight of John standing in the kitchen. “Good morning, John,” he said, and turned his eyes back to his violin.

John sat down in his armchair. Straightforwardness without preamble was always best with Sherlock. “It boils down to this,” said John. Sherlock paused and looked at him curiously. “We have to trust each other. More than we already do. It’s the only way this is going to work.”

Sherlock appeared to consider this. Then he said, “I already trust you, John.”

“We have to trust each other _more_ , Sherlock. With things we wouldn’t have before. Weaknesses we’ve tried to hide, or to at least deal with on our own. Things we wouldn’t have said before because we were afraid of how the other would react. We have to trust each other enough to say them, and we have to trust each other to be kind when we do.”

“I take it trust is one of those nearly infinite variables you’ve been pestering me about.”

John grinned. He couldn’t help it. “Indeed,” he said. “We can deal with the other variables as the need arises, but this is one of the things we have to agree on right from the beginning. I’m telling you, Sherlock, that I know the pair of us pretty well. If anything romantic is going to actually work between us, we have to trust each other even more completely than we already do.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s going to be hard,” John said. “There are things we’re going to have to do, and things we’re going to have to tell each other, that we never have before. We have to be able to trust each other enough to open up completely. There’s--- Look, the fact of the matter is I’m used to being in romantic relationships with women---”

“I’d noticed,” Sherlock said, dryly.

John carried on as though he hadn’t heard him. “---and quite frankly, one of the reasons that’s always worked for me is because women are emotive. If I was upset, they’d be able to get me to talk about it. If they were upset, they had no qualms letting me know. But we’re two _blokes_ , Sherlock.”

“I noticed that, too.”

John rolled his eyes. “Glad your powers of deduction haven’t completely failed you.”

“Noting our genders isn’t deduction, it’s observation. And I fail to see what your point is to any of this.”

“What I mean is, the things that girls usually do in romantic relationships--- express their feelings, get their partners to express their feelings as well, be patient and kind and understanding and _sentimental_ as the situation requires--- neither of us is terribly good at any of those. We’re going to have to do it anyway, though.”

Sherlock continued polishing, but John could see the crease between his brows and could tell he was thinking furiously. After a moment he glanced up at John. He was surprised to see that Sherlock looked impatient. “Well, then?” Sherlock said. “Get on with it.”

“Get on with what?”

“Tell me something you wouldn’t have before.”

John laughed, leaning back in his chair, tension he hadn’t felt before suddenly seeping out of him. If Sherlock was going to be Sherlock, then John could be John. Everything would be all right. “I still have nightmares.”

The look Sherlock gave him clearly said he was exasperated with John’s stupidity. “I _know_ , John.”

“Yes, you know. And I already knew that you know. But have I ever _talked_ about it before?”

“Why would you have?”

“Exactly!” John cried. Sherlock looked confused. John continued, “Before, they were something I hid. Something I was ashamed of. I’m still ashamed, quite frankly, but now I’m swallowing my shame and my pride and talking to you about them. And _you_ ,” he jabbed a finger at Sherlock before he could speak, “never talked about them before now, either. You were either respecting my boundaries and giving me space to deal with them on my own, or you find them dull and not worth the effort of talking about. But either way, now you’ve got to get over your own reservations about talking about my nightmares and deal with them, too.”

“Is that what romantic relationships are?” Sherlock asked conversationally, turning his attention to his violin. “An endless litany of your own faults and weaknesses? I’m beginning to remember why I swore off them for so long.”

That brought up a subject John was _dying_ to ask about, but now was not the time to drag up Sherlock’s past. That would have to wait until they were more firmly established.

John couldn’t help the enormous, surely stupid grin that split his face when he realized they were going to be more firmly established at some point. There was a future with this. John could have sang. He could have danced.

“No,” he said instead, “romantic relationships are about getting closer to each other. Getting to know each other, _really_ know each other. Can’t do that if you only know the good bits. You have to know the good bits and the bad bits and the almost-good bits and everything in between. You have to look for them in the other person, and you have to let the other person see them in you.”

“It’s going to have to go the other way, too,” said Sherlock.

“How do you mean?”

“We can’t just tell, John. We have to be allowed to _ask_.”

John laughed again. Sherlock glanced at him, a small smile on his lips, and God, how John _hated_ that smile. It was the one Sherlock did when he didn’t quite understand why John was laughing. Like he wanted to believe John wasn’t mocking him, but wasn’t quite sure. Like he was waiting for John to explain, not the joke, but the insult.

John wanted to fling himself across the room and kiss that smile right off Sherlock’s face. Then he wanted to go on kissing him until Sherlock forgot every single thing that had ever happened to him that would have taught him to smile like that in the first place.

Instead John said, “Well, yes, that too. I was getting to that. It’s just. . . God, Sherlock, that _would_ be what you want permission for. To interrogate me.”

Sherlock smiled fully. A real smile, not a tentative one. If anything, it made John want to kiss him more. “I simply require more data, John,” he said.

“And that’s something else,” said John. “That, what you just said, I’m going to take as a compliment. It would be easy to get insulted by that, to wonder if I was an experiment and if you even cared about me at all, but I’m _choosing_ to take it the other way.”

Sherlock snorted. “This is getting more complicated by the minute.”

“And you love it.”

Sherlock smiled, eyes on his violin.

“For the most part,” John continued pleasantly, “there’s no way to predict what’s going to happen. I don’t think we can really set any ground rules or anything; we’re just going to have to play it by ear. There are only two things I’ll ask we agree on up front. Two things I’d like to make ironclad agreements.”

“Stipulating terms already?”

“Trying to avoid catastrophe.”

“Point taken. What are they?”

“First of all, and I’ll start with this one because I think it’s easiest,” John took a deep breath and watched Sherlock’s face carefully, “I think we should take sex off the table. I mean, I think sex shouldn’t be an option.”

If John hadn’t been watching so closely, he wasn’t sure he would have caught every nuance of Sherlock’s expression. His entire body stilled, his eyes slowly closed, and his face slipped into an expression of absolute calm. No, more than calm. Serenity.

Well, that was that sorted, then. Sherlock’s relief couldn’t have been more pronounced if he’d held up a sign. John shoved his own emotions away to deal with later.

After a moment Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he turned his attention once more to polishing his violin. John thought he may have been a bit embarrassed to let his emotions show so clearly, but didn’t draw attention to it.

“How are we defining sex?”

John was prepared for the question, so he was able to reply immediately and without embarrassment or hesitation. “I think we can safely call it anything that involves the removal of clothing, and anything that is obviously going to lead to orgasm.”

Sherlock nodded. “So you are not point-blank dismissing all forms of a physical relationship.”

“I’m open to it,” said John carefully. “If anything makes you uncomfortable, if there’s anything you don’t want to do, then that’s fine. We won’t do it. But I would like to be able to kiss you, hold your hand, that kind of thing.”

“So a physical relationship without physical intimacy.”

“Physical intimacy doesn’t necessitate sex.”

“Now you’re just making things up to sound smart.”

“No, I’m not,” John replied, entirely without heat. “Sometimes sex isn’t intimate at all. And sometimes a hug can be more intimate than anything you could ever get up to between the sheets.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, and John’s heart broke a little more. God, he’d known Sherlock was a virgin, but to be so. . . so completely untouched, so unable to understand anything involved with touching another human being was. . . Had the man never had a friend? Never had a childhood?

After a moment Sherlock flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Whatever. We’ll define sex according to your terms, and leave the rest to ‘play by ear,’ as you seem intent upon being as imprecise as possible. What’s the second thing?”

“Sorry, what? Second thing?”

Sherlock sighed. “The second thing you want to make an ironclad agreement. Do keep up.”

“Oh. Honesty.”

Sherlock looked offended. “I’m _always_ honest with you, John.”

John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and tried to find words that didn’t sound too harsh. “Before now, allowing for one or two obvious and major exceptions, that’s always been true. And I’ve _never_ been dishonest with you, just in case you were wondering. But this is. . . this is different. This is new.” He paused, unsure how to go on, and some distant part of his brain was surprised Sherlock didn’t jump in. At this point he would normally either be injecting his own opinion or stating what he thought John’s was, rather than just sitting there. John wondered if he was being patient, or if he honestly had nothing to say.

After a moment John continued, “Maybe honesty isn’t the right word. More like. . . more like openness. We need to be able to talk about things, Sherlock. About _everything_. It’s not just. . . look, before, anything we talked about, we were honest with each other. But there were subjects that never came up. Now, though, we need to not only always tell the truth, we also need to be able to introduce any subject.”

“Example?”

“This is exactly the sort of thing I was talking about before. Sex is something we’ve never talked about, but since it affects our romantic relationship we need to talk about it now. We need to be _able_ to talk about. And once we were talking about it, we needed to be totally honest. _And_ it was something that _I_ needed to talk about. It was embarrassing and difficult to bring up, but that’s how this has got to go. I had something I needed to say, and I said it. You need to know that I’m going to try my hardest to carry on that way. And, more importantly, you need to know that _you_ can bring up anything. You can tell me anything. You can say anything to me, Sherlock, anything at all. I’m not just asking you to let me trust you. I’m asking you to trust me.”

“Again with the trust,” said Sherlock. His tone was light.

“Again with the trust,” John agreed. 

“My _God_ ,” Sherlock said, tossing his head, “no _wonder_ people end up killing their boyfriends and husbands. This is _insane_. Why would anyone do this to themselves?”

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut. John could see the panic rising through him, which was unusual enough for John to realize that Sherlock _still_ didn't understand what was going on; didn't get what they were doing and why John wanted to do it in the first place. Well. . . John was already flaying himself open. Might as well put himself in an even _more_ vulnerable position. 

John rose and walked to Sherlock. Without a word he took the violin from Sherlock’s unprotesting hand. Then the polish. Turned, placed them both on the table, and turned back to Sherlock.

Then John dropped to his knees to kneel next to Sherlock’s chair and took his hands. Sherlock looked at him like he had just started doing the Macarena, or something equally bizarre. But when John wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s and rested them on Sherlock’s knees he didn’t pull away.

John said, “People enter romantic relationships for all kinds of reasons, and I can’t pretend to know them all. I can’t even imagine why _you’ve_ consented to enter this one. All I can tell you is why _I_ did.”

He took a deep breath. Looked away. Then forced himself to look back, because this was the rest of his life John was dealing with, even if he didn’t want to tell Sherlock that, not yet. But Sherlock had to see that John was willing to do this, willing to be open even though it was difficult and embarrassing. John had to do this right.

So he looked up at Sherlock’s face, looked him in the eye, and said, “I asked you to pursue a romantic relationship with me solely because I---” love you, love you more than anything, love you so much I can hardly breathe--- “care about you. I care about you a very great deal, Sherlock. More than anyone else. I want to be closer to you, to get to know you even better.”

The longer John spoke, the wider Sherlock’s eyes popped. John was upright on his knees, but his head was still below Sherlock’s, yet the man leaned forward bit by bit as John spoke. John hoped that was a good sign, but didn’t pause long enough to find out, just in case. “You need to understand that, Sherlock. You have _got_ to understand that, to me, the most important thing in the world is _you_. Okay? Which is why no matter what you do, it’s all right. Even if you want to call the whole thing off, it’s okay. I don’t want to do anything that _y_ \-- _-_ ”

Sherlock kissed him.

Well, John managed to think after a second, ‘kiss’ may have been a bit generous. Mostly he just pressed his lips tight and leaned forward, hunching his shoulders to awkwardly press his face to John’s. It was too hard, and if their lips had actually connected it might have hurt. But Sherlock’s aim was terrible, and he ended up pressing his lips just over the corner of John’s mouth. He tipped his head and dragged his lips to press against John’s and his eyes were wide open the whole time. After a moment he seemed to realize he was staring, and screwed his eyes shut.

John smiled against his lips. Sherlock shifted, but before he could move John disentangled their hands and gently, so very gently cupped Sherlock’s face. He closed his eyes, and tipped Sherlock’s head just a little, and softened his own mouth, and pressed their lips together again.

This time it was definitely a kiss, and John thought his insides turned to water at the feel of it. His heart really did stop, he could _feel_ it skip a beat, when Sherlock let out a tiny noise and relaxed his lips and tried to kiss him back.

John pulled back after a moment to catch his breath. God, it hadn’t even been open-mouthed and the kiss left him panting like a racehorse. He smiled again, then let go of Sherlock’s face in favor of draping his hands over Sherlock’s where they were now wrapped tightly around his knees.

He expected Sherlock to lean back--- he was, after all, bent forward and down, since he was still sitting and John was kneeling in front of him--- but instead Sherlock pressed his forehead to John’s and said, “I already need to ask you for something, John.”

“Anything.”

John wondered if he had ever heard Sherlock’s voice sound so small and quiet as when he said, “I need you to be patient with me.”

John’s hands tightened over Sherlock’s. “I---” he began.

“Let me finish,” said Sherlock. His forehead was still pressed to John’s, but John was able to look up and see his face. Sherlock’s eyes were closed. “I can’t do all of this. Not right away. But I--- I _want_ to, John. Stop this ridiculous doubting; it’s tedious. It’s going to be even more tedious if you try to continuously make sure I’m still okay with what we’re doing. You of all people ought to know I do _not_ suffer in silence. But I---”

He looked so lost that John immediately put a hand on his neck to cup the back of his head and kissed him. Sherlock’s mouth had been open, and John’s was too, and their lips slipped and slid into each other’s mouths. John pressed closer, and inhaled deeply through his nose, and didn’t move their lips at all, just held it.

Then he pulled away, their lips making the most deliciously wet sound as they parted. After a moment he was able to say, “You don’t know what you’re doing. Neither do I. This is new to both of us. We’re both going to mess up, but that’s why we need to be able to talk. Okay?”

Sherlock’s eyes were flickering all over John’s face. After a moment he whispered, “Okay.”

John smiled at him, his biggest, sunniest smile, and squeezed his hands again. “It’s going to be fine. It’s _all_ going to be fine. Now, what shall we do about lunch?”

Sherlock made a face as John stood up. “Ugh. Does this mean I’m going to have to eat more?”

Finally--- finally finally _finally_ \--- able to do so, John tenderly brushed the hair back from Sherlock’s forehead and kissed his temple. “Obviously,” he said, in his best imitation of Sherlock’s disdainful rumble.

Sherlock laughed as John walked towards the kitchen.

John allowed himself another smile. It really was going to be fine.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #notdead
> 
> More importantly, if you haven't read A Telling Touch by MiyakoToudaiji yet, now would be a good time to go do that. I've even bookmarked it to make it easier for you. :)
> 
>  
> 
> (Also, see the chapter end notes for kind-of-spoilery-and-misleading-mild-trigger-warnings)

After their “Us” Talk, John insisted on lunch. He had beans on toast, and managed to harangue Sherlock into eating a slice after he had finished with his violin. Then John went up to his room, ostensibly to look for a book to read, but in reality he just wanted a moment. He threw himself down on his bed, buried his face in his pillow, and laughed. Curled up on himself and focused on how happy he was, and tried not to let his eyes slip closed in bliss when he remembered their two kisses. Best kisses of his life.

Then he grabbed a book, any book, and made his way downstairs. He wasn’t surprised to find Sherlock stretched out on the settee, eyes closed and fingers pressed to his lips (oh God, _those lips_ ), clearly thinking deeply. He was surprised, however, when Sherlock said without opening his eyes, “Just thinking.”

John couldn’t help but smile. Sherlock had not only noticed him enter the room, he had also told John exactly what he was doing. Even if it was painfully obvious. John wanted to do a jig.

Instead he looked at the settee thoughtfully. Yes. . . Yes, it looked to be the right amount of space. He walked over to stand next to Sherlock and took a deep breath. But. . . well. . . Sherlock _had_ pointed out that he didn’t suffer in silence. If it bothered him too much, John knew he would have no compunction making his discomfort known.

So. Nothing for it, then. John put the book down on the armrest, said, “Don’t mind me,” so he didn’t startle the man, then did what he’d been dreaming of for ages: wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s ankles, lifted his legs, slid underneath them on the settee. Then he put a cushion on his lap, rested Sherlock’s feet on the cushion, picked up his book, rested his hands against the top of Sherlock’s feet, and began reading.

Pretended to read, anyway. In reality, he spent the next two minutes staring at the phrase “guerrilla warfare”while he tried to gague Sherlock’s reaction. He hadn’t moved at all since John first spoke; but he hardly ever moved when he was like this, so John couldn’t tell if he was frozen in shock, or if this was normal. When John glanced at his face it was perfectly calm and blank, just like always. John resolutely turned his eyes away.

It took him a few moments, since the skin of Sherlock’s feet against the backs of his hands was very distracting, but eventually he figured out that the book he was pretending to read was _The Great Boer War_ , which he’d already read. That was good. John didn’t have to pay too much attention.

He skimmed through the almost-familiar pages for a while, doing his best not to draw attention to himself. After the clock on the wall had counted off fifteen minutes, he risked another glance at Sherlock’s face. No change.

That was just what John wanted. He glanced at the clock again, to time himself, and then turned his eyes back to Sherlock and allowed himself to just _look_.

God, Sherlock was beautiful. That was the only coherent thought that crossed his mind until he dragged his eyes back to the clock and realized he’d overshot his time limit. It had been seven minutes.

John turned his eyes resolutely back to his book, and did his best not to look up again. It really was an interesting read, after all.

Eventually he got up. He made dinner. He brought dinner back to the living room, put a plate by Sherlock’s head and wasn’t surprised when the lanky man didn’t move. John sat on the floor, leaning his head back against Sherlock’s legs, and ate with his plate in his lap. When he was done he washed his plate, leaving Sherlock’s untouched on the off-chance that Sherlock _might_ eat if he just left it a little longer. Then he settled back on the settee under Sherlock’s feet, said “Let me know if this bothers you,” and turned on the telly.

After two advert breaks John couldn’t help himself anymore. He first rested his hands, palm-down, atop Sherlock’s feet, curling his fingers around them. After that provoked no reaction, John started moving his hands. He went slowly, giving Sherlock time to adjust to the sensation or put a stop to it, but neither happened. Either Sherlock didn’t notice, or he didn’t mind.

So John sat on the settee with a show he wasn’t watching flickering on the telly and massaged Sherlock’s feet. He was tense, still unsure of what Sherlock thought of this whole thing, if he was aware of it at all. But then Sherlock let out a hum that sounded like pure contentment. It was quiet, and were it not for the lull in the chatter from the telly just at that moment John might not have heard it at all. But he did hear it, and it made him glad, and he continued his ministrations without worry.

Eventually he felt his eyelids dropping, and realized he was sagging forward so that his face was almost resting on Sherlock’s toes. God, he was done in. He didn’t even want to know what time it was. Much as he would have loved to just stay on the settee all night with Sherlock, he knew that if he didn’t get a mattress underneath him soon his back would be a screaming mess in the morning. If he wanted to walk in the next twenty-four hours he’d have to get up. He turned to look at Sherlock, to say goodnight, to maybe work up his nerve and ask for a kiss, but the words never came.

Sherlock was asleep. His hands were palm-down over his clavicals, his head tipped the littlest bit to the side, his mouth slightly ajar. His breathing was deep and even.

The surge of pure _affection_ John felt at the sight left him breathless. There was no telling how long he sat there and stared at the man he loved, the man he adored, while he slept.

Carefully, very carefully, John slipped out from beneath Sherlock’s feet. He rested them back on the settee, then spread both blankets they had in the living room over the prone form. Then John knelt next to Sherlock and stayed there, utterly unable to move.

There was a little stream of drool leaking from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. If John had doubted whether he was really asleep that confirmed it. He chuckled to himself, wondering why such a funny sight was driving him almost to tears, and slid a finger under Sherlock’s chin to nudge his mouth closed.

No doubt about it, not after this: John was in love with Sherlock. Always would be.

Ridiculous, childish tears pricking the backs of his eyes, John leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Perfect lips, drool and all. But he didn’t want to wake him, so after only a moment he drew back. Didn’t look at Sherlock again, well-aware of the fact that if he took one last look he’d end up spending the whole night staring. Instead he ruffled the curly hair, managed to stand on achy, creaking joints, and made his way upstairs to bed.

 

* * *

 

 

He lay alone in the dark for what felt like hours. It had been a long time since he’d had insomnia this bad. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t sleep, it was that he wasn’t tired: he tossed and turned and did his best to work off this sudden nervous energy. He even considered getting up and doing some light aerobics on the floor before deciding that, while he wasn’t too tired to do so, he was definitely too lazy.

He tensed when he heard a noise outside his door. He was ready to spring off the bed before the door creaked open the tiniest crack and Sherlock whispered, “John?”

John settled back on the bed, smiling happily. “Come here, you,” he whispered.

Sherlock ghosted into the room, closing the door behind him, and walked to stand next to John’s bed. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, staring down at John.

John pushed himself up the headboard until he was sitting. “You’re upset,” he said to Sherlock.

“You didn’t take a picture,” said Sherlock. After a moment he added, “I checked.”

There was a pause. “What?” asked John.

Sherlock motioned to his face. “I was drooling. You didn’t take a picture. I checked your phone.”

Before John could register the words--- Sherlock was kissing him.

It wasn’t like before. He was still slightly awkward, but it was messy and sloppy and more eager than any kiss had ever been and hotter than _hell_. His hands were on either side of John’s face, and John reached up to grasp his biceps and pulled until Sherlock tumbled onto the bed next to him.

John had been kissed almost like this before. He recognized the motivation behind it, knew what this sort of kiss meant, and damnit, if Sherlock wanted him that bad then he would get him. Without hesitation John rolled on top of him.

The noise Sherlock made as John settled his weight atop him was delicious. John gripped Sherlock’s hips with his thighs, slid one arm between the bed and Sherlock’s back and held him tight, and used his free hand to grip Sherlock’s jaw firmly.

He held Sherlock’s head still, prevented him from escaping, and forced his lips apart. Sherlock gasped and almost tried to pull away, but John would have none of it. His grip on Sherlock’s jaw tightened while he licked at the inside of Sherlock’s lips, his cheeks, ran his tongue along Sherlock’s clenched teeth.

Sherlock was struggling, now, though whether he wanted more or less was unclear. He was definitely trying to turn his head away, but his hands were clutching at John’s shoulders and pulling him down, so John decided to call that a form of encouragement and go for it.

He brought his other hand up to Sherlock’s face, as well. John used his lower arms to pin Sherlock’s shoulders to the bed, pressed his palms to Sherlock’s jaw and spread his fingers, holding his head firmly. Still lapping at Sherlock’s lips he pressed his thumbs to the fleshy portion of Sherlock’s cheeks. The younger man seemed to immediately realize what John was after, and John could feel the muscles in Sherlock’s temples move as he clenched his teeth even more tightly. John ran his tongue along Sherlock’s teeth and pressed his thumbs harder. Whether he meant to or not, Sherlock’s jaw lowered and his teeth barely parted. It was all John needed.

John forced his tongue past Sherlock’s teeth and plunged into Sherlock’s mouth as deep as he could, grinding his hips down at the same time. Sherlock made a strangled noise and tried to pull away from the dual sensations, but John ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth and ground into him harder. Struggle or no, Sherlock was definitely on board with this, if his impressive hard-on was anything to go by. John could feel Sherlock’s thick cock sliding along his own--- when had they lost their pyjamas? Not that John was complaining--- and it almost drove him mad.

Sherlock’s breath was hitching in and out of his nose, obscenely high-pitched noises gasping out of his throat to be swallowed down John’s. His entire body was tense and unmoving.

John kept one hand on Sherlock’s face and slid the other underneath him, holding him as tight as he possibly could. John could feel it, the moment Sherlock decided to give in: his body went more tense, his legs wrapped around John’s waist, his mouth opened impossibly wider. John took all that for the invitation it was and had at him.

He fucked Sherlock’s mouth roughly with his tongue while he thrust their cocks together as hard as he could. He had thought it couldn’t feel any better, had thought he’d never been so hard in his entire life, until Sherlock somehow managed to work a hand between them and wrap his long fingers around John’s cock, flicking his thumb over the head. John thrust into his hand and fucked his mouth harder.

Sherlock was whimpering, body quivering, and John wanted to see him. He knew full well that the sight of Sherlock would probably tip him over the edge, that most likely the moment he opened his eyes he’d come and it would all be over, but he didn’t care. He had to see.

But he couldn’t. He was clutching at Sherlock desperately, drowning in him, and unable to open his eyes. For a moment he thought Sherlock was pinching his eyelids shut, then he realized that they were stitched together, must have been, because he couldn’t open his eyes, even though he tried, and tried, and tried. . .

John’s eyes snapped open and he awoke with a gasp. He was drenched in sweat, his pyjamas clinging to him, sheets tangled around his knees, and he could still almost hear Sherlock’s whimpering. He reached for his cock, desperate for release, because he could still imagine Sherlock’s hands on him. . .

John’s hand closed around what was left of his cock. His pathetic, tiny, cut-up little half-todger.

It all drained out of him in an instant. He fell back against the pillows, breathing hard, both arms flung above his head like his hands couldn’t get far enough away from the soft thing between his legs.

After he calmed down a little, woke up fully, he tried to remember if he had really been hard or not. He’d reached for himself as soon as he woke, but he’d been still half-caught in the dream and hazy. Certainly as soon as his fingers had touched what was left of his cock he’d gone flaccid. But had he been soft the entire time? Had he only dreamed he’d been hard, or had he actually managed to get it up?

He pondered this until he fell asleep. It was upsetting, and humiliating, and anything at all was better than thinking about the fact that he’d almost come in his sleep from a dream about a not-quite-willing Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

 

When he went downstairs the next day--- already showered and meticulously dressed in his beige aran jumper and good jeans--- Sherlock immediately called him into the kitchen.

“John! John, come here!”

Dreading another acid leak, and secretly both hopeful and worried that Sherlock might just want a kiss, John made his way to the kitchen as quickly as he could. Sherlock was wearing the black pants and the purple shirt, and John couldn’t help flicking his eyes to the straining buttons, even if they were sadly obscured by the buttoned-up suit jacket.

One glance at Sherlock’s face, though, and all thoughts of straining buttons were forgotten. Sherlock was _grinning_ , grinning wide enough to outdo the Cheshire Cat. His eyes were sparkling. He was even rocking on his feet, hands clasped behind his back.

“I’ve got it, John,” he stated as soon as John walked into the kitchen.

John couldn’t help but smile up at him. “Got what?”

All at once Sherlock’s face clouded, his brows knitting together. For a moment he said nothing. Then, “You’re upset.”

John shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

Sherlock shook his head. “ICA 2, John.”

Like that explained everything. “What?” John asked, filling the kettle.

He could almost hear Sherlock rolling his eyes. “Ironclad Agreement Number Two, John, do keep up. Honesty, remember?”

“Ah. Well, how about this,” John flicked the kettle on and turned around, leaning back against the counter to gaze at Sherlock, “it’s not nothing. It’s something. But I honestly _wish_ it was nothing.”

Sherlock grinned. “Fair enough. What was it about?”

The only thing John could safely ask would be how Sherlock knew it was a nightmare, but a lecture on deduction wasn’t what John wanted at the moment. There was nothing else to say, though, so John didn’t say anything.

Sherlock threw his hands up, rolling his eyes heavenwards. “You’re the one who said honesty. You’re the one who brought up your nightmares already. _I’m_ trying to do what you said and deal with them. What would you have me do?”

That cut John to the quick. Here was Sherlock, actually making an effort, doing exactly as John had asked him to do, and John was reverting to how he’d always been after a nightmare.

“I’m sorry,” John said immediately. Took a step forward, wasn’t sure if physical contact would be acceptable, stopped. “You’re perfectly right.”

He took a deep breath, debating how to phrase all this. Sherlock had dropped his hands and was watching him. Not just because he was curious about what John would say, though. John could tell Sherlock was nervous.

Great, just great. The first time Sherlock acted like they were a couple and John completely put him off. Brushed him off, even. Brilliant, Watson, that’s the way to repay his thoughtfulness and make him feel safe and cherished in your relationship. Just perfect.

“It wasn’t one of the normal nightmares,” he explained. Sherlock looked at him more intently. “It was. . . wasn’t Afghanistan or anything. It was. . .”

“It was about me,” Sherlock cut in quietly.

“Yes,” said John.

Sherlock didn’t move, but John could see how the word affected him. Like he’d been slapped, like he would have flinched if he thought John wouldn’t notice.

“Oh, _bollocks_ ,” John hissed, pressing his hands to his eyes. “I’m making a right mess of this. Just. . . Look, sit down and eat something, okay?”

Mercifully, the kettle chose that moment to go off, and John was able to collect himself while he made two cups of tea, just the way both of them liked. When he turned back to the table Sherlock was sitting down, still eyeing him warily.

There was a plate of toast in front of Sherlock. Looked to be about two bites missing. There was also a plate of toast and beans in front of the chair closest to John. He was certain he hadn’t heard the toaster since he came down. Besides, making it would have taken too long. It must have been ready before John reached the kitchen.

Sherlock made him breakfast. Before he’d even come downstairs.

He sighed and did his best to smile at Sherlock. “I’m a right prat,” he said. Sherlock snorted and smiled. “I really am. I’m sorry, Sherlock. Thanks for putting up with me.”

“I believe that’s what I signed up for,” Sherlock said.

John walked around the table, handed a mug of tea to him. Then he dragged his own plate across the table and sat in the chair next to Sherlock, rather than on the other side of the table. Sherlock was still watching him. John would have to tell him. To stall, to give himself just a little longer to figure out how to say the whole thing, John took a huge bite of toast.

It was cold. The bread was getting soggy. He took another bite anyway.

John looked down at his plate. “I had a nightmare, and you were in it. But you weren’t the horrible part, Sherlock. I wasn’t upset with you or anything.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. John could almost feel his gaze sweeping over him. Then he said, “You dreamed I was hurt.”

John shook his head. “I dreamed I hurt you.”

“What else?”

John looked up at him. He was sneering. John cringed internally. If Sherlock was reverting to hostility he was really upset.

“Okay, I didn’t just dream that I hurt you. I dreamed that. . . that I. . .” he looked back at his toast, unable to look Sherlock in the eye as he said it. “I was kissing you. I wasn’t being very gentle. You didn’t like it and I. . . I didn’t care. I was. . . I was _forcing_ myself on you, Sherlock. You weren’t enjoying it, but I was, so I kept going.” John heaved a shaky breath.

Sherlock started to speak, but John cut him off, because Sherlock had to understand why this was important, what it might mean about John himself. “Listen to me. I have nightmares kind of a lot. You know this. But it’s always. . . a reasonable fear. Something that did happen, or that _could_ happen. You know. Afghanistan. Dartmoor. The pool.” He didn’t _say_ ‘the roof at Bart’s,’ but they both heard the words. “And this was so awful and I swear I’d never do something like this, Sherlock, but then why would I dream it? Why would my subconscious throw up something like this?” John pushed a piece of toast across his plate, miserable.

“Oh, John, really?” Sherlock’s voice broke into his musings, arrogant and condescending. “That’s what’s got you so upset? But it’s so _pedestrian_.”

John looked up at him sharply. Sherlock was back to his usual self, looking at John with exaggerated impatience. “What do you mean, pedestrian?”

“Pedestrian, John, means---”

“I know what the word means, thanks. What I meant was how is _this_ pedestrian?”

“If you were going to get cold feet and have nightmarish misgivings about our relationship, I had thought you might be a bit more creative.” He flicked a hand dismissively.

“Hey, now!” John caught his hand mid-dismissive flick. “I am not having _misgivings_ about our relationship. I’m having misgivings---” about my ability to control myself around you, about my ability to not ignore what you want and just take you on the kitchen table, half-cock or no--- “about my own subconscious. . . I don’t know. . . _ideas_ about us, I guess.”

Rather than retorting sharply, as John had expected, Sherlock suddenly looked thoughtful. John realized he hadn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand; their joined hands were resting on the table between them. Well, if Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything or pull away, then neither was John. Suddenly Sherlock’s mouth twitched, and then he smiled. Despite his misery, John couldn’t help but smile in return.

“There’s always something,” said Sherlock. “John, what did you say your nightmares are usually about?”

John shifted uncomfortably. This really wasn’t something he enjoyed discussing, but the hell with it. Sherlock was worth a thousand uncomfortable discussions. Well, a thousand _more_ , anyway. “Afghanistan, Dartm---”

“No,” Sherlock cut him off, shaking his head. “Not locations. What sort of _situations_ do you usually have nightmares about? What sort of situations in your own life?”

“Things that already hap---”

“Exactly!” Sherlock cried, smiling again, before John could even finish the thought. “‘Things that have already happened,’ do you see?”

John did not see, and said so.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, then leaned forward intently. His hand tightened on John’s, and John wondered if Sherlock even realized he was doing it. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with you, John. You’re not fantasizing about forcing yourself on me, you’re worried that it already happened.”

John gaped at him for a moment, before he managed to force out, “I know my hard-drive isn’t quite as good at storing information as yours, but I think I’d remember something like that.”

“Oh for godssake,” Sherlock said, clearly exasperated. “You’re being too literal. I don’t mean forcing yourself on me _physically_. You’re worried that I’m not as enthusiastic about our change in relationship as you are. You’re worried that you asked for it and I acquiesced out of some deep-buried desire for you to be happy, or as some sort of experiment, or simply because I didn’t know how to say no. You’re worried I don’t want this. You’re worried you forced me into a romantic relationship.”

John said nothing. All he could do was stare.

Sherlock’s smile only widened. “What, John, no comments this time? I think that deserves at very least a ‘fantastic’ or two, don’t you?”

What it deserved was an ‘I love you,’ but John managed not to say it.

“I’ll see your ‘fantastic’ and raise you three ‘bloody well amazings,’” said John. “I--- that explanation hadn’t even occurred to me, frankly.”

“But it is true,” said Sherlock.

“That I forced y---”

“No, John, stop being _dull_! I meant that my interpretation was correct.”

“Oh,” said John. “Yes. I suppose so. It makes sense. But Sherlock,” John squeezed his hand and leaned forward, intent on studying every flicker and nuance of Sherlock’s expression as he said what he needed to say, “you really do need to tell me if this isn’t what you want, okay? I mean it. If there’s ever---”

“I’ve taken care of all that, John,” said Sherlock.

John was used to feeling like he’d missed about five minutes in any given conversation with Sherlock Holmes, so he was unperterbed, and merely said, “Taken care of all of what?”

“Well, _obviously_ you wouldn’t be worrying about this if you had no doubts about my willingness. I hate having to repeat myself, John, and as I said yesterday that I’m perfectly willing I don’t really feel like having to say it again and again for days on end until you get the message. So I’ve come up with what will, I think, be an acceptable way to show you.”

John’s mouth went dry. What on earth might _that_ mean?

“While I never tell you a lie, John, I also don’t tell you _everything_ ,” Sherlock carried on, high on his own brilliance and oblivious to John’s reaction. “However, I believe that with the aforementioned change in our relationship, it would be acceptable for you to witness every aspect of my life. You did, after all, say that you want to get to know me better,” here he did look at John, and it was possible that no one _but_ John would have caught the unsurity in his face, heard the uncertainty in his tone.

“I do, Sherlock.” John squeezed his hand again, thrilled that he was allowed to do this, allowed to emphasise his thoughts by tightening his fingers around Sherlock’s. “I really do. I want to get to know you _entirely_.”

Sherlock smirked. “It’s decided, then.”

“Mmmmm, nope,” said John. “I’m still not entirely sure what you’re proposing.”

“Simply that you assist me with _everything_ , rather than just most of the cases and domestic chores,” said Sherlock derisively.

John was chuffed. Sherlock may have tried to disguise the request as a command for John to act even more like his personal pageboy, but John saw behind the words anyway.

“In short,” John said, his face splitting into such a wide grin he was afraid the top of his head would fall off, “you want to spend more time with me?”

“If you _must_ put it that way, then yes. As much as possible.”

Their eyes met. John’s smile grew. “I find that acceptable,” he said, raising Sherlock’s hand to kiss his knuckles. He was startled to see Sherlock’s eyes slip closed, his head beginning to tilt forward. John left his lips where they were.

“Excellent!” Sherlock cried suddenly, leaping out of his chair. He tried to tug John to his feet. “Come on, then, let’s get started. There are some---”

John remained seated, but wouldn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand. “Toast first.”

“ _John_ ,” said Sherlock, sounding utterly exasperated.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John replied. Sherlock stopped trying to haul him to his feet, and John turned away from him, taking his own toast and gulping another bite. God, but it was disgusting. He took another bite, and another, and Sherlock finally sat down next to him again. John smiled when Sherlock began eating as fast as he could, hand still holding John’s.

They ate in silence, and John didn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand until he stood and collected their dishes. He was washing them at the sink when he felt, rather than heard, Sherlock come up to stand close behind him.

“You’re still upset about your dream,” said Sherlock.

John paused, remembering the feel of Dream Sherlock’s muscles under his fingers as he’d desperately tried to keep his mouth closed. “Maybe a little,” he conceded.

“There’s an obvious solution,” said Sherlock.

“Really?” asked John. He turned around and leaned back against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest, suddenly defensive as he looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed, and tried to keep his voice playful and arrogant, but the smile wasn’t working for him. God, two kisses and suddenly John thought he could read Sherlock Bloody Holmes like a book? What was that all about? “Well,” said Sherlock slowly, “you could try to overwrite the data.”

John didn’t bother reminding Sherlock that he didn’t think of his _own_ head as a computer. Instead he said, “What, take a nap and try to dream something else?”

“No,” Sherlock said slowly, playfulness entirely gone now. When it looked as though he was about to turn away John uncrossed his arms, fingers lightly touching Sherlock’s arms. He didn’t catch him, didn’t try to hold him if he wanted to turn away, but tried to show that John wanted him to stay.

“You, um,” said Sherlock. It was, John thought, probably the first time he had ever heard an entirely sober Sherlock say ‘um.’ “You’re upset over a dream about kissing me roughly, when I was unwilling,” he stated.

“Yes,” said John, cringing again.

“Well. . . ah. . . You could overwrite that particular portion?”

John looked at him quizzically. Whatever he was trying to say was obviously difficult for him, and John wanted nothing more than to help, to just understand so Sherlock wouldn’t have to keep trying,  but he honestly had no idea what the man meant.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. “You could, could maybe kiss me again? When I _am_ willing?”

John smiled, and tried to look neither predatory nor completely insane. He lightly traced down Sherlock’s arms, just barely catching Sherlock’s hands with the tips of his fingers. “And are you willing now?”

Sherlock’s sneer was entirely too wide-eyed to be believeable. “Obviously.”

“Well okay, then,” said John. It wouldn’t do to smile too widely, he thought. Then he realized he really had no control over it. Sherlock’s lips were delectable, and inviting, and beautiful, and willing, and _right there_ , and god, John thought he just might die.

Abruptly he stopped himself, leaned back a little, looked Sherlock in the eye. “But you really do have to stop if you don’t like something, okay?”

“John,” Sherlock said, and the glare he leveled at the older man would have been enough to make a mere mortal quail and possibly burn to ash, but since John knew he was glaring because he was impatient for John to kiss him again John couldn’t be anything but delighted. “I swear on all that’s holy I shall complain until my vocal cords cease to function if you do a single thing I don’t like. I promise. Complaint shall never cease. Satisfied?”

“Not just yet,” John whispered.

Sherlock’s eyes went very, very wide as John loosely gripped Sherlock’s waist and tugged him forward until there was barely a breath of air between their bodies. Both their previous kisses had been abrupt and not terribly well thought-out. John was determined to take his time on this one, to make it so incredibly romantic they’d be writing sonnets about it for a thousand years.

So he leaned back against the counter for support, and smiled up into Sherlock’s eyes, and slid his hands up that suit jacket. His left hand stopped at the base of Sherlock’s throat, fingers curling around the junction between his neck and shoulder, thumb nudging at the collar of his shirt until it slipped against skin. His right hand went higher, to gently cup Sherlock’s face. There was smooth skin under his palm, and dark hair curling against his fingers, and he allowed his thumb to brush against that cheekbone. Sherlock’s eyes were still very wide, and he reflexively brought his hands up to grip John’s elbows for balance.

John stood up on his toes, still leaning against the counter for balance, and used his hands to draw Sherlock’s face downwards. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, but John didn’t press their lips together immediately. He wanted to make this good.

First he kissed Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock inhaled sharply, but neither opened his eyes nor pulled away. John could feel his entire frame go rigid as a tripwire, even though they weren’t pressed flush against each other. He kissed Sherlock’s jaw to one side of his chin, then the other. Then the tip of his nose, left cheek, right cheek, the center of his forehead, right eyebrow, left. Sherlock’s lashes fluttered as John gently kissed both his eyes. Then each cheekbone, then his cheeks again, and then--- and _then_ \--- finally, his lips. John’s eyes slid shut.

John kissed his lips the way he’d kissed all the other points on Sherlock’s face: a little peck, a brief pressure, a light touch with his lips still together and no suction. He kissed Sherlock’s lips dead center and immediately pulled back, and then again, and then again, again, again, again. . .

And _then_ Sherlock made a little noise in the back of his throat, and his grip on John’s arms tightened, and he leaned forward.

He did nothing else, but the intent was clear. John used his grip on Sherlock’s neck and face to tip his head slightly to the side before kissing him properly. He parted his lips just a little, and let the warmth and dampness of them settle over both of Sherlock’s lips. Tipped his head slightly for a better angle, and found a way to cover both of Sherlock’s lips with both of his own. Sherlock’s grip tightened again.

John barely pulled back and then pressed forward again, parting his lips enough to catch Sherlock’s lower lip between his own. He held it for barely a second before allowing it to slip out again, and _oh_ , he didn’t know which was more wonderful: the sound their lips made when they parted, or the sound _Sherlock_ made at the same time. So he did it again, then repeated the move on Sherlock’s top lip.

And then, and _then_ , when John next sucked Sherlock’s bottom lip, Sherlock suddenly sucked John’s upper lip into his mouth. John stopped breathing.

There was no telling how long they stayed like that, John gradually sinking back down onto his heels, Sherlock gradually coming closer until they were pressed flush against each other, learning each other’s lips with gentle pushes and pulls. When John just barely nibbled Sherlock’s lip the man jumped so violently John wrapped an arm around his wasit to steady him. He would have pulled back, but Sherlock immediately tried the action on John--- with similar results--- so John guessed he hadn’t minded too much, and did it again. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and melted.

It was heaven. John thought that if they ever stopped he might simply cease to exist.

Gradually, though, his muscles began protesting. His lips got sore, his neck ached, and just a little longer, just one more moment exactly like this, just one more kiss, just one more kiss. . .

John slid his lips down the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, then the skin of his jaw. He was more than a little smug when Sherlock turned his head and chased his mouth with his own. John kissed his lips one more time, then kissed the skin under his chin, then pecked his throat, then tucked his face into the juncture between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder and just held on.

Sherlock bowed his head, tucking his chin over John’s head, wrapping his arms tightly around him. John realized after a moment that Sherlock’s heart was thundering against his own.

“I think,” John managed to breathe after a minute, “you can safely consider that stupid dream overwritten.”

Sherlock huffed a breath into his hair, and John almost died of happiness.

But no matter how much he loved the man, John’s legs wouldn’t support him forever, and he’d been on his feet for a while already. Reluctantly, John pressed another firm kiss to the side of Sherlock’s neck, then pulled back. One his arms was still wound around Sherlock’s waist, though, and both of Sherlock’s arms were still around him, so even though he pulled away and smiled up at Sherlock they were still pressed together.

“Now, then,” John said, smiling at the slightly dazed look in Sherlock’s eyes, “I believe you were trying to drag me off somewhere?"

“Right,” Sherlock said. John could _see_ him mentally shake himself. Then his face settled into a sneer. “Right. Before _toast_.” 

“Before toast,” John agreed. It was hard to believe the sneer when his hands were still splayed on John’s back.

“We’re going to nip down to Bart’s and see if Molly has anything for us,” Sherlock said, stepping away from John and letting his arms fall to his sides before he seemed to remember himself, and almost ran to the sitting room for his coat.

“Come _on_ , John!” he cried.

It took a moment for John to catch his breath enough to push himself away from the counter to follow. God, he really did love Sherlock.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! And happy Series Three Day! Here's hoping we all survive. . .
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: mild dub-con, but you can skip from the point where Sherlock comes into John's room and go right to the next scene, and after that there's explanations and everything.


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